


Or Be For Ever Fallen

by marainein



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Dean, Angry Sam, Casifer, Existential Angst, Explicit Language, Gen, Horror, Hunter Dean, Hurt Sam, Hurt Sam Winchester, Lucifer's Cage, Madness, Pain, Post-Episode: s11e10 The Devil in the Details, Psychological Horror, Sam in Hell, The Cage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-05-16 17:16:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5833927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marainein/pseuds/marainein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's out of the Cage, but he's finding out that the Cage is still in him. There's radio silence from Cas and Crowley since the latest contretemps in Hell, and no one knows where the Darkness might be, or what she might be up to. Dean can't take not knowing what to do: with Amara, with Sam's guilt, with his own. Lucifer has a gift for Sam, and its one that he's not sure he wants or needs, but it may not be one that he can refuse.</p><p>This is pretty canon-compliant up to episode 11/10, but will take its own path after that. A lot of it has to do with Sam's time in the real Cage, and it's a less conventional, more non-euclidian take on it and its horrors than usual. Sam & Dean and Sam & Lucifer are the main relationships, but there's nothing very happy or comforting happening here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Drive Them Like Highways

 

 

 

_As he fell, he'd died; a hundred times, a thousand, or so he thought, in that fall that took no time, that took all of forever. There was a roar, a scream that never began and never ended, that filled the whole universe. He'd never really understood before the nature of sound as vibration until it shook every atom, every particle of his body apart in jagged waves of intimate agony. It came from inside him somehow, he thought, but he couldn't make a sound that contained a feeling like this. It wasn't rage, it wasn't fear, it wasn't despair, though it contained all of them. It wasn't any simple human emotion that he could pin down. It was something infinitely older, unfathomably deeper, at once more complex and more primal; some vast ur-emotion that ripped through him and around him, leaving everything inside him cold and scoured and empty. It was killing him, it had killed him, it had to have killed him. No human could feel this and survive. He was being obliterated cell by burning cell. His mind and soul were shivering apart into smaller and smaller fragments and, soon, there'd be nothing left of him at all._

_It was only once that eternal fall had ended, as he was somehow folded and compressed and pulled through the strange loops of knotted space and time that were the locks of this cage, twisted in directions that didn't exist, without slowing down, and shattered against its walls, that he understood. With the impact, that screaming, burning presence was ripped violently from every place inside of him at once, and he was once again just a man, just Sam Winchester, tiny, fragile, and insignificant, locked in an unspeakably cold box hung against a seething void, bracketed by the fury of two powerful, utterly alien beings. That's when the pain and fear truly started._

_That's when he understood that dying, that ceasing to exist, would be a mercy that he could never hope for._

 

* * *

 

There's nothing. Well, worse than nothing, maybe. There's so little, that what scraps he finds are vague, maddening dead ends, beyond useless. There's nothing to verify them; nothing to cross-reference. As far as the world knows, as far as the lore goes, the Darkness doesn't exist.

Sam's been searching for days... maybe it's been a week now. At least a week. Ransacking the archives of the Men of Letters, searching every nook of the internet, looting all the mythologies he can find for whispers of an ancient dark goddess older than the universe itself. The table is strewn with books. He doesn't even bother putting them away any more, he just lays them on top of each other, stacks of open books three and four deep, except for in front of the chair near the end where Dean sits to eat or scour the news and boards for any sighting, any event that could be a sign of Amara, while he pretends he's looking for cases. He knows this can't be good for Dean, either, but Sam doesn't know what else to do. He sleeps for two hours at a time, works for ten or twelve hours, sleeps for two more. If he stops working, he starts thinking, and that's not good. That's anything but good. If he sleeps, he dreams, and that's even worse. So he buries himself in this mission; this utterly pointless, utterly futile hunt for something that shouldn't even exist.

"Hey, Sammy, eat something, will you?" Dean wanders in from the kitchen and sinks into his chair with a steaming cup of coffee and his tablet. "I left some eggs in the pan. Gotta keep those brain cells fueled in case you get a vision from God telling us to walk naked into a vamps' nest or something."

"Fuck you, Dean." He doesn't even look up.

"Oh, don't be so touchy, princess. I was just joking." Dean shrugs widely, his swinging hand knocking over the nearest stack of books to the floor. Sam flinches, and the crash echoes in the silence. They stare at each other a moment. Sam breaks eye contact first, and Dean raises an eyebrow. "Whoops."

"I'll eat later." Sam mumbles, staring at a site about Smashan Tara and aghoric rituals. Cannibalism and charnel grounds. Necrophilia... his stomach churns. "I'm not hungry now."

"Suit yourself."

They haven't talked much the past few days. It usually turns out something like this when they do. Anxious, bitter, reproachful. He's not sure why it's so bad; it wasn't when they came back to the bunker from Hell. Dean did his vigilant big brother thing, making sure Sam ate and rested and didn't need anything stitched, assiduously avoiding talking about anything that had to do with how either of them felt. There was a single hug that followed him checking the cuts on Sam's face, paired with a fierce, low "Don't you ever fucking do that again, Sammy." Sam told him wouldn't, and he meant it. His pride, his blind trust, his need for faith had screwed them once more, and yet again, Dean had had to pull his ass out of the fire. Sam tried to apologize a few times for going to Hell without Dean, but Dean waved him off, telling him to  _forget it, if we could not talk about it right now, that would be great_.

Sam can't forget it. He can shut up, though. He can very easily  _not talk_  to Dean about how it had felt to be back in a cage with Lucifer, even though he didn't remember what the real Cage was like. He knew, somehow, that it wasn't like this one, that Rowena's cage had been a poor mimicry, like a high school theater set of a supermax prison. Inversely, he also somehow knew that the Lucifer he met was very real, he knew how the devil felt with such immediate intimacy that it left him feeling turned inside out, totally defenseless. He didn't think he'd ever be able to forget that. Sam can also  _not talk_  about the nightmares he has every time he closes his eyes. He doesn't even understand them. The things he can see and feel in them, glimpses of geometries that shouldn't be able to exist, a burning worse than any fire chewing it's way, inexorably slowly, from his spine out to the terminals of his nerves as he lay, unable to move or scream. Those two hours a stretch come in sweaty, gasping starts and fits. Dean doesn't need to hear about that. He has enough to worry about.

And Dean definitely doesn't want to hear about how Sam keeps finding his thoughts spinning in circles after too long spent staring at a paragraph he's no longer reading. About the voice he keeps hearing, and it's his voice, he knows it, no doubt, and he's dismayed that his own mind could betray him like this.  _I should never have been let out. Never,_  it says.  _That was where I deserved to be, all these years, forever. They should never have let me out._

No, he can surely shut up about that.

The first few days had been good. They were both subdued, a little more quiet than usual, but that was scattered with the usual quips, a few beers, their daily routines. Sam still felt shaken, but it felt good to be back here with his brother. Dean had come for him, like he knew he would. He could always rely on that. They both took it easy for a few days, but eventually they had to face that there was work to be done. Looking for Amara, for the Darkness. For God's big sister. For where she was hiding, for some way to weaken her or take her out. And then the phone calls started. The ones that didn't get answered. Dean had dialed Cas dozens of times, left increasingly anxious messages. And Crowley, too. No response from the angel or the king of hell. Not even a text.

At first Sam had tried to calm Dean down.

"C'mon, Dean. Don't drive yourself nuts. It's only been a few days. There's a lot going down right now. If they're not answering, I'm sure it's because of something important. They'll get back to you when they can."

Dean gave him a look with narrowed eyes, a look that was part hunted, part angry. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Um, nothing. I just mean you're freaking out for no good reason. You can never tell when Cas is going to show up, and Crowley's got his hands full with Rowena. Give it another day. Or a few hours, at least."

"Uh-huh." Dean stalked out of the room.

Sam was bewildered at first, before it hit him. What Dean had thought he'd meant.  _If they're not answering, I'm sure it's because of something important._  He hadn't even thought about Dean's missing his call when he'd said that. He still didn't know why Dean had missed it, but he was sure it was not the right time to ask now. He thought about going after Dean, explaining himself, smoothing it over, but, knowing Dean, it was better to just let it blow over. Trying to force a discussion would just make things worse.

Things got worse anyways.

Even Sam was worried when five days had passed with no word from anyone, and still no sign of Amara anywhere. They were used to handling hunts on their own when it came to your average, everyday monsters and demons. But this was a problem of a different order. This went beyond even heaven and hell. This was something of a cosmic nature, something incomprehensible. They didn't know what she was, they didn't even know what she wanted. Eating souls, well, there's no way that was good, but did it mean she wanted to destroy the entire world? All of Creation? Why had God locked her away? Where, and how? The more questions they asked, the more in the dark they were. Where did they even start? And they'd never taken on something like Amara before without powerful allies. And now they were alone, no angels, no prophets, not even a lousy witch or demon, cut off from any information. And Dean had grown more frantic, more restless, more angry. Maybe Sam should have suggested a hunt, but every time he thought about going outside the bunker, he thought about the last time he'd left. When he had walked out with Rowena, certain that he was going to remove the threat to Dean, to the world. Certain that those visions had showed him what he could do to fix everything, to finally do the right thing.

And then he'd think to himself, _maybe they had_. _Maybe he'd failed once again_.

"Where the fuck is he?!" Dean slammed his phone on the table.

"I don't know. It is kind of weird for him to be out of touch this long when there's something this important, but it's not like he hasn't done it before. Have you tried praying?"

"Of course I tried praying! But do you see Cas anywhere? Zilch, nada." Dean looked up at Sam, "Have  _you_  tried praying?"

"No," Sam said, softly. "My prayers got... intercepted before, you know. I don't want to risk it. You know he doesn't usually answer me, though."

"Must be that whiny voice of yours," Dean grinned. "Or that bitchy face you make. Yep, that one, right there."

Sam sighed. "Anyway, did you try Crowley?"

"Yes, I tried Crowley! But I sure as hell am not gonna pray to that bastard." He pauses. "Would that even work? Praying to a demon?"

"No idea. But you could call him again."

"It will just piss him off if I leave too many messages. _Looks bad to the underlings if Dean Winchester keeps blowing up my phone._ " Dean nailed Crowley's accent.

There was a moment of silence as Sam scratched notes on a pad. "Well, if you do hear from him, let me know."

"Why are you so anxious to talk to him, anyway? Can't wait to get back to hell? Obsessed with seeing your old pal Lucifer again? Regretting not saying "yes" this time?"

Sam stared at Dean in shock at the venom in his voice. "What the hell, Dean? Of course I would never have said yes. I'm not going back there."  _Even if that's where you belong?_  He shook his head as if to dislodge that voice. "I just have some questions for Rowena about the book."

Dean's nostrils flared and he narrowed his eyes. "Right. See, I'm just not sure how I can trust what you say right now. I can't even go out on a hunt, and, fuck, do I need one, because you could just wait till I'm gone to run off on another _vision quest_. And with everyone AWOL, how would I even know this time, before it was too late?"

"Dean, stop it! I'm not going anywhere near the Cage!" Sam slammed the book down on the table in front of him. That time, Dean broke eye contact first. Sam looked back at his book, not seeing it. "I'm not the one that's obsessed, anyway. You refresh your browser every five minutes looking for news from Amara. If she had a Facebook page, you'd be her creepy stalker."

"Oh, maybe that's just because she's  _pure chaos_  and wants to  _unmake the whole universe_. That might just be a _little bit_ important. And rather than moping around here like an overgrown nerdy teenager in your mom's basement, I'm trying to get shit done!" Dean looked reflexively at his silent phone again. "And maybe if someone hadn't wasted everyone's time needing to get rescued from Lucifer's fucking cage on a  _special mission from God_ , we'd actually have gotten somewhere by now!"

That time it had been Sam who'd stormed out. He's pretty sure Dean didn't waste any time worrying about whether to apologize or not, though.

After that things had deteriorated for both of them. Sam had stopped sleeping much, buried himself in research. Dean had ramped up his hunt for news; he'd even found some mind-mapping app that he was using to piece together clues to where Amara could be, replacing the old paper-and-strings-on-a-board technique. Sam had actually enjoyed Dean's excitement in showing him this "cool new program" he'd discovered. It had been an hour without any of the tension and fighting that trailed them these days. Dean hadn't even gotten annoyed when Sam recommended he upgrade to the pro version so he could back up his work.

But now they were in a dangerous holding pattern. Dean's temper was fraying ever shorter. Sam wanted to reassure him, tell him that he knew it was just because Dean was not used to sitting back, helpless and passive, while there was something out there to fight. Neither of them were. Tell him to go ahead and check out those strange deaths in Wisconsin while he held down the fort. But instead, what usually came out of his mouth were equally biting barbs, which he regretted immediately, but couldn't seem to stop from saying.

Sam gets up and stretches, joints popping and creaking from all the hours he spent hunched over the table. He shuffles into the kitchen, stirring the cooling eggs, taking a few bites directly from the pan. He has no appetite, the cold anxiety was tying seething knots in his stomach, but it was something of a peace offering. Dean always seemed more relaxed if there was something he could do to take care of Sam.

He dumps a half-full cup of cold coffee in the sink and refills it from the pot. On his way back to the table, he stoops down besides Dean's chair to pick up the books he'd knocked over earlier. He gathers up the armful, flinching as a sudden "Goddamn it!!" explodes from Dean's mouth, followed by a loud crash from the kitchen.

Sam drops the books and jumps up, ready to take on whatever threat had materialized in their kitchen. But there's nothing there. Just Dean's tablet, lying cracked on the floor, surrounded by the shattered remains of the dishes it had hit when Dean had thrown it across the room. Sam blinks at the scene and then turns and looks at Dean, still seated in his chair, hands gripping the arms till his knuckles are white.

"What the hell, Dean?" It seems he's saying that a lot lately. He doesn't understand. The Mark is long gone. Dean has always had a temper, but this kind of stuff is happening way too much. Maybe the Mark had left some impression, maybe there's some kind of echo still rattling around his soul.

"That piece of shit app of yours lost everything. All the work that I've done these past few days. Gone."

"Did you back it up like I showed you?" Sam asks without thinking.

"Oh, of course, because if I'd done it your way this wouldn't have happened. You're so smart, Sammy, and you always know just what to do, right?" Dean stares down at Sam with barely contained fury.

Sam opens his mouth, closes it again as he bites back a retort. Takes a deep breath. "No, Dean, that's not what I mean. I just-"

"Just what, Sam? Just want to sit here, playing Jenga with the damn library, while out there, people are dying, Cas could be in trouble, Amara is god knows where doing god knows what? As long as you can run off and scratch whatever twisted little itch you have, or hide your head in book, screw the rest of the world, right?"

Sam stands up, too fast. His head spins, feels empty. Too little sleep, too little to eat. It goes white behind his eyes for a moment, and that's what he blames it on. He's not feeling like himself, because surely otherwise he'd never say what he says next.

"Oh, my twisted little itches, huh? How about you, Dean? How much fun did you have slutting your way across the country with Crowley, as a _fucking demon_? How about all those bloodbaths that you just _couldn't stop_? Was that really all just the Mark? Because you seemed to enjoy it to me. Seemed like you really got into it. Kind of like you really seem to be getting into Amara. You want to run out and find that...that  _soul-sucking bitch_ all by yourself? I'll just get in the way, won't I, because only Dean Winchester can do the right thing?" Dean's face goes white, but Sam just can't stop. "Is that why you had to stop the trials? Hell could be closed for business forever right now, and there'd be no Darkness, either. But you had to save me again, didn't you? Or could you just not bear to be alone?" He's shaking, not really sure what he's saying, but the words just keep tumbling out. "But, see, what I don't get is, if that was the case, why was there that thing with Death, then? You brought me in there to _die_. You didn't plan on missing. You shouldn't have missed. I'm still not sure why you did. What's the point? Maybe you'd have  _actually gotten somewhere by now_  if you hadn't."

Dean's eyes have gone hard. His voice is quiet, clipped, controlled. "Yeah, I'm not sure what the point is either." Dean stands up. "I don't know what the point in any of this is. I've got to get out and work. Amara, no Amara, there are people out there that need my help. Unlike here. I can't do this same old shit again right now." He turns and starts to walk out of the room.

Sam swallows. What had just happened? He'd thought they'd gotten past this crap. Before this week, things had been better between them for a while now, better than they'd been in a long time. Almost like the old days. Before Sam had gone and fucked it all up again. Before he'd let Dean down. Again. "Dean, wait-"

Dean stops, but doesn't turn around. "No, Sam. I need to get the fuck out of here for a while. You can stay here and... be pissed at me _for not killing you_ , if you want." He turns his head and looks back at Sam, and Sam can see nothing, not even anger, in his eyes. "And if you decide you need to go back to hell... well, don't call me, ok?"

 

 


	2. I Keep Throwing it Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean chases down a hunt in the hills of Wisconsin. He's not running from anything.
> 
> Maybe.

_There were no bars on this cage, no doors or walls. Not in any way he could comprehend._

_Instead the borders that contained them were infinitely twisted, infinitely regressing loops of tortured space. You could scramble into the spiraling fractal gullies, razor-sharp and cold and biting, and never escape, instead finding yourself spit back out, chewed up, sliced to ribbons, right back in the maelstrom at the center of the cell._

_Right back between the wrath of the two archangels whom he had trapped inside, forever. Trapped with him._

_There was a terrifying, incomprehensible beauty to them, even in their rage. They were shattered cold light and the boiling plasma of stars.  They were impossible angles and perfect curves that would make artists and engineers go mad and wail with desire. By them he was frozen and burned, torn and rent, compressed and broken. He was not sure if they were even aware he was there, at first. If he was the target of their fury or if he was merely caught between them as they battled each other with a violence that mounted exponentially. In no way did it matter: as he gibbered and howled, they did not cease. Time didn't mean anything anymore. It may have been ten years, it may have been ten thousand._

_Oh god what had he done to himself? It was a mistake, a mistake. If he had known he never would have taken the fall, he never would have fallen. Could he have let the world end, could he have let them all die? All he wants is to just escape now. If he could just please_ not be _now, any more, ever. He could not take this. Please, please._

 _It was terror._ He _was terror; and pain, unending, unimaginable pain. There was no more Sam. He'd collapsed into a single, writhing point of unspeakable dread that found no bottom. There was no longer any kind of_ self _between him and what was contained in the cage. It was as if every layer of him had been peeled back and discarded, one after the other: first skin and mucus, then fat, then shining muscle and blood, then nerves, organs; finally his bones had been shattered to dust and swept away in a screaming, infinite wind. After that went his memories (deanbobbycasjessdadmomsammywhataretheirnamesournames), all stripped and melted away like layers of bubbling paint in acid. Next went his thoughts: he could feel his mind, his ego, his very self boiling away into nothing in a whirlwind of dissolution. What was left was near nothing; just raw, fragile soul, twisted and ravaged between the gleaming claws and roaring maws of these creatures he had betrayed._

......

The air streaming through the open window is almost warm, almost. It smells of of that yellow-green scent, the smell of growing things about to give over to harvest and seed, with a hint of that slight, sharp, _cold_  scent that means autumn is rolling in early. Iowa had been the worst, it always put Dean near to sleep; just so flat and empty and dull along the interstate, to the point where slowly spinning windmills or the distant steam rising off twin nuclear cooling towers was a welcome break to the lack of anything to look at. As he moved across southwestern Wisconsin, the terrain had changed to rolling hills covered in woods and valleys spotted with farms with old barns, the shoulders and median covered thick in late-summer gold and purple wildflowers. Pretty enough, he supposes. It looks safe. Sleepy. If you don't know enough to think about the kind of things that lurk out in those woods.

Dean taps his fingers against the slick, cool metal of the door. _Tap. Tap tap. Tap._ It's not in time to the music, it doesn't even have any rhythm. Stuttery, jittery. It's fidgeting. He's on edge; unsettled. He needs to get out of the car and hunt something soon, chase something down that he can feel, with his fists or his knife or his gun. Before he goes crazy. Before he starts thinking about all the loose threads he's left unraveling behind him.

His jaw is clamped tight as he pulls into a gas station outside of West Salem. It's early evening, the sky is a deep, dusky blue as the sun has just edged down behind the bluffs in the west. The white and red lights of the building and signs reflect in wavering patterns off an oily puddle covering the asphalt. Dean stretches his back muscles as he fills his tank. _Crack. Crack crack. Crack._ He feels it now, these days, more than ever. The way his shoulder catches with a small, sharp pain when lifts his arms. The way old scar tissue pulls at the ribs on his left side. The brittleness in his joints, like he's a damn old man. Hunting ages you. Probably dying so much doesn't help, either. He rolls his neck, stretches his clenched jaw open. _Damn, his life is so fucked up_.

Dean strides across the lot, past dust-coated trucks with gun racks and sensible commuter cars, and enters the brightly-lit store to the sound of a jingling bell. He fills himself a cardboard cup with steaming coffee while scanning his eyes over the wire racks of packaged foods. He tells himself he'll find a diner after he finds a motel. He tells himself little rural towns always have good pie. It rings hollow. He's not even close to hungry. His stomach is a small, sour, twisted knot.

The cashier is a young woman in her mid-twenties ( _when did that get to be young?_ ). Slender and tall, with a dirty blond pony-tail. Rachel, her name tag reads.  Not exactly pretty, a little too plain for that, but with that painfully lovely, milky, almost poreless skin that only country girls and models seem to have. She also has a bright, guileless smile, that she flashes at Dean, peering up at him from under her eyelashes as he walks up to the counter. He returns it reflexively, re-estimating "pretty" in light of that smile.

"Hey, there, Rachel. So, how far is it to, uh.... Coon Valley?" Dean leans against the counter, his forehead wrinkling at the unfortunate name.

"Only about half an hour. Maybe forty, 'cause that's a curvy road and it's getting dark."  She takes his card with an apologetic smile. "Gotta watch out for deer this time of year."

"Of course." Twenty-five minutes, then, if he opens up Baby on those curves. "Is there a decent motel there? Nothing fancy, clean and cheap is good."

"Well, there's the Dew Drop Inn. It's kind of old, and there's no cable, but it's clean and Nora and Joel take good care of it." She waits for his receipt to print out. "And there's The Comfort Court, but, well... I don't know if I'd want to stay there. Not after the dead guy they found."

Dean's professional instincts kick in as he signs the slip. He leans in closer, eyebrow raised. "Dead guy?" 

Rachel peers back at the middle-aged Asian woman with a messy bun that's come out of a door along the back wall and is stocking boxes of cigarettes. She lowers her voice just a tiny bit, conspiratorially. "Yeah, they found a body there two months ago. Old guy from down toward Chaseburg. Nobody'd seen him for a while, I guess. Turns out he'd been in that room, dead, for _two years_. They said he'd died in his sleep, but..."  She shudders, wrinkling her nose. "So gross. I don't want to even _imagine_ how that smelled."

Could have something to do with the case he's looking into here; the vics had died in their beds, though their deaths had been too violent to be in their sleep. Also, all four of them had been within the past month. "Yeah? That seems weird; no one went in that room for two years?"       

Rachel snorts. "Yeah, that's what the owner said, but it seems pretty fishy to me...."

"There's nothing "fishy" about it, Rachel," her coworker cuts in. She turns and looks at Dean with frank, sharp eyes. She's short, and a little heavy, but there's a pleasant softness to her features and her voice is a soothing contralto. "Isaiah was an old, lonely drunk. He'd go into town to drink at Double Dee's at least four, five times a week. He had that room rented for good, had a set of keys, ever since he hit that kid driving home from the bar twelve years ago. Just wander across the street and sleep it off and drive home in the morning. Kept to himself.  Kelly never bothered him, since he'd paid for three years in advance. Kind of a loan, really, when she needed the money to get though a rough patch. it was pretty much his second home."

Rachel makes a face. "Then why'd she go in after all this time, Frances? Ugh. He must have been _rotted_."

"Pipe burst in the room next door and they needed to get in through the wall. Real life just ain't as exciting as TV." Frances shrugs, gives them a thin smile. "And he was desiccated. Like a mummy. Probably smelled a little musty, is all."

Dean grins at Frances in his most disarming fashion. "So, what you're saying is you'd recommend the Dew Drop Inn, huh?"

 ...

The road to Coon Valley is as curved and twisting as Rachel promised.  As he gets further from the interstate, there's nothing but the occasional warm light of a farmhouse glowing from a ridge to compete with the emerging stars. Dean tries to clear his mind of everything but the hum of Baby's engine as he presses into each turn; tries to just feel the pull of the cool wind sweeping over his skin. But the utter darkness of the woods in the corners of the deep and narrow valleys he passes pulls his thoughts in directions he doesn't want them to go. To the dark waves of Amara's hair, the feel of her lips pressed against his. He'd felt so calm, so safe. And it had felt so _wrong_ underneath it, to feel that good. But, in that moment, he hadn't cared. He couldn't reconcile all the images of her in his head: as streaming vortexes of thundering darkness tearing through the ground around him and Sam, as a wide-eyed child, as a woman with fierce eyes and warm skin and huge, huge... cheekbones, that could cut you. But, behind that all, she was just... some incomprehensible force. Something _older than god_. Something that might, maybe, want to kill them all. Maybe.

He doesn't want to be with her.

But he doesn't feel right away from her, either.

He keeps having these dreams, seeing glimpses of her, walking, moving, sometimes in crowds, sometimes alone. And each time he sees her out of the corner of his eye and turns to look at her and she's gone, and he feels... this sense of _loss._ Like something is missing, something important. It feels like grief. He wakes up, empty, looking around the room for someone he knows isn't there.

_Damn it._

He slams his palm against the dashboard. Who can he talk to about this? Maybe Cas, but he can't reach Cas. He's tried a few more times since he left the bunker that morning, without any actual expectation of reaching him. Cas is off the reservation, again, damn it. And Sam... Sam wouldn't understand. Well, maybe he would, maybe better than anyone. There was that whole thing with Ruby. But after the hell he'd given Sam over that piece of madness, how could Dean ever admit to him how he was feeling now? It wouldn't be fair, to have been so hard on him, to have held Sam to a standard that he couldn't reach himself.

And Sam... he feels guilty for thinking of himself and his _lady problems_ with _the Darkness_ and sparing so little thought to what to do with Sam. But every time he starts thinking about it, his stomach goes cold and empty and his breathing goes shallow and fast. He doesn't even want to think about what had just happened. What had almost happened. _What the hell had Sam been thinking? How could he have let himself get pulled into that cage again? How could Dean have let Lucifer lay his hands on his little brother?_

Dean feels a hot flush of shame run through his body as he remembers how he left Sam early that morning. The things he had said to him... unforgivable. Dean's been blunt with him before, been angry, but... never cruel. He hopes desperately he that wasn't. _I'm sorry, Sammy. So sorry_. But, the thing was, what was scaring him the most, was the fear that what he'd said had been true. Not the part about not helping Sam, he'd always come when Sammy needed him, no matter what he'd done, no matter how confused and angry Dean was ( _unless, of course, he was too busy making out with the enemy... no, no, he won't think about that_ ). But that Sam, somehow... _wanted_ to be back in the Cage. That he thought he belonged there. He couldn't even begin to understand how Sam could think that, but almost every choice he'd made since he'd been out, since he'd gotten his soul back, spoke of regret. Or, if not regret, some kind of twisted guilt that he had ever been set free. That he was alive at all.

Dean takes a deep pull of autumn-scented air. Something had _broken_ in his brother in that time in the Cage. Something that Dean didn't know how to fix. How to begin to fix. He'd hoped that when Cas had taken his pain and madness and memories that it would have made everything better, made Sam how he used to be, clever and full of hope and curious and, and, and...  _prissy,_ and stubborn. That he would get his little brother back. And for a while, it had seemed like it had, almost. But after the trials, after seeing Sam so determined to die... it had almost seemed like he'd been more focused on death than on closing the gates to hell. And in the hospital, he'd chosen to die, even though by that time the trials were passed, and couldn't be completed. He had chosen to die, to leave Dean behind, for nothing at all.

Dean looks over the tops of the dark hills, not really seeing the stars at all. All the shit that Dean had done afterward... Gadreel, the Mark, his demon holiday, the deal he'd almost made with Death... _Sam's life for Dean's exile_... He'd thought that Sam had forgiven him. He'd hoped. Dean had been to his share of dark places. He'd served his time in hell, he'd never exactly run from death himself. But Dean did what he did with a fury, to feed the places in him he'd burned through with his own anger. Anger at himself for destroying so much. He'd take whatever punishments he deserved, but he still cared about _living_ , most of the time. He still wanted to take care of the people that he loved. He still wanted a chance to right the wrongs he'd done.

And, now, after all of his betrayal, after all the time that he'd spent thinking Sam hated him for what he'd done, even after it seemed like they'd reconciled, now it feels to Dean like... what? Like Sam hasn't forgiven him? No, despite the fighting, he doesn't think that Sam is angry with him. It feels like Sam's given up on _himself_. Like he thinks he's disappointed Dean, or the world, or himself, one too many times. All of the above, maybe. Like he just... wants to be destroyed. Like he doesn't want anything anymore.

And Dean thought he was the fucked up one.

....

The road swerves, down, slicing back and forth in a series of tight switchbacks, before curving out to dead end in the town's main road, which runs the length of a long, open valley. Not much here. A few antique stores, a bank, a couple of restaurants. All old, brick buildings. Quaint. A few more bars than you'd think you'd need for a town this size. There, at the far end of the strip of buildings, is the notorious Double Dee's Saloon ( _Fill 'Er Up!,_ the sign says). Directly across the street is the Comfort Court. It's small, a long building with five rooms on each side, and a separate office. It's simple, and old, but the structure is in good repair, the empty parking lot clean. "Vacancies", the red neon sign reads. No shit.

Dean pulls into the lot. It'll be easier if he stays here, he can wait till the small hours of the morning and check out the dead guy's room. Probably that one on the far end, with tattered yellow police tape still hanging limply across the door. See if maybe it had anything to do with the case he's checking out, or if it was just some sad, old drunk kicking it in his sleep, with no one left to miss him, not even his drinking buddies at the bar directly across the street. With no one to notice for two whole years.

After he checks into room #4 (Kelly had been friendly enough, but her eyes were as vacant and tired as her motel), he looks at his phone. 9:40. No calls. No messages. Dean sighs, sits on the faded, homemade quilt covering the creaky bed. He thinks about hitting up that cheerfully lit family restaurant he'd seen three blocks down. Have a beer, a burger. Sit alone in a room full of strangers. He looks up at the far corner of the room where the corner of the wallpaper is peeling, just a little.  Picks up the remote and lays back on the bed. Unlike the Dew Drop Inn, Comfort Court has basic cable, at least. Dean kicks his shoes off and flicks through channels without pausing or looking. Checks his phone again.

Sleep a few hours, check out the dead guy's room. Do some research, get some breakfast, head out to victims' homes bright and early for interviews. Find the big ugly, kill it.

He puts his phone on the bedside table, sound turned up, in case any messages come in. Sam isn't sleeping much these days (he thinks Dean doesn't notice). Maybe he'll call him after he checks out the room, see what he thinks, if he can find any history or lore on the area. Or maybe he'll  call him in the morning, after breakfast.

Maybe.


	3. I Get By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing for Sam to do when he's left alone and crumbling in the bunker, but seek out the comfort of old friends.

_There was darkness. Something like a void, but he was a pinpoint of dim, terrified awareness in the vast gulf, so it wasn't truly nothingness, not entirely, not if he was there. But it was cold, and it was dark, and it was vast; it felt endless. He couldn't separate himself from it; there was barely anything left of him to separate, and even if there had been more, nothing to mark the boundary of self and other. Just dark, just empty._

_He slowly had become aware of a change, something beginning to fill that darkness. At first, he couldn't understand it; where it was, what it was, where it was coming from. It surrounded him, it was deep, so deep; it had seemed to shiver the darkness around him in ways that were unsettling and unpleasant and wrong, after so much nothing. As it persisted, it grew and changed, seeming to slowly swell and recede. It had brought with it a deep unease. Change was not good, in this place. With change came pain, came confusion, came terror._

_After a time that he couldn't measure, he had noticed a new sensation. A kind of irritation, a static, a deep itch, so faint that it was nearly below the threshold of perception. And, still, that first thing, the vibration that had surrounded him, it was stronger. It was long and slow, and deep and thrumming. It rose and fell in languid, menacing waves. A word had floated into his fragmented awareness: sound. Growing louder._

_The itching, the static, had grown in intensity, as well. He had begun to feel something, something that was more than nothingness, something that defined a place that was "not me." It felt as if there were billions of billions of tiny shards, uncountable fragments being shifted around. Something getting moved, bit by bit, from a state of dissolute chaos to unrelenting order. Pieces snapped together with inevitable, magnetic force. An image ran through his mind: two small hands (his own? who was he?) rooting through a grubby pile of small colored blocks, clicking them together with a satisfying snap, building a... (tower?). The image was so remote and alien to anything that he now knew that he couldn't make sense of it, couldn't hold on to it. Snap, snap, snap. The itching intensified, and then that boundary between himself and all the nothing became something he could identify. Flesh, he thought. Nerves._ Pain. _Sudden, immense, intense, inescapable pain flared into existence. He had wanted to open his mouth, to scream, to plead, to beg for this to stop, he didn't want this, but he had no mouth, none that he could identify. Just a collection of brittle, sharp bits being forced together. And the Sound, which seemed to be everywhere now._

_The Sound began to fill everything. The distance, the time between the troughs and peaks got shorter, and the pitch rose as well. Another word drifted into his mind: music. But he couldn't figure it out. It was slow and uneven and deep, like a tape that had been half eaten and played back at half speed. It was nightmarish, low and desolate. And then, as the bits of his body (was that the word? he had had a body at one time, he remembered that now) were assembled on the latticework of his raw, unprotected nerves, he felt something else. Fingers. Hands. Not his own. There was someone else here with him, and they had their long, sharp fingers buried deep into his meat, weaving him together painstakingly and without any gentleness at all._

_"...I'm so alone... don't have nobody to call my own..." The Sound resolved itself suddenly, jarringly. A low, familiar voice, humming, singing fragments of a upbeat and jaunty song. It was so surreal, so counter to everything that he had been experiencing, that it threw him into deep distress. He tried to jerk away from those cold, precise, and brutal hands that were rooting through his intestines. Tried to scream. He couldn't move, his incomplete body, pulsating with pain, still wouldn't obey him. But a long, thready whimper, soft and desperate, had cut through the humming song. The hands froze for a moment, wrapped around the column of his spine. The humming stopped._

_"Oh, Sam," said the voice (and that's the thing that he was, he was a_ Sam, _and he had never regretted anything so much). "There you are. I'm so glad you could join me."_

_The voice contained a smile, but it was not a kind one. Sam tried to open his eyes, but everything was still darkness. He shivered. "Oh, no, no, don't get up on my account! I know, I know. You think it's too much to ask that I searched out and gathered up all the tiny little pieces of you, all the little gluons and quarks that were left once my brother and I got done with our little spat. You were really all over the place, too. Just a mess." There was a low chuckle, as if Sam was silly for being so utterly destroyed. "Not two atoms to rub together. And now, to top it off, I'm piecing you back together, good as new. My very own six million dollar man." There was a crack as something in his chest was twisted by the hands. A rib maybe. Being broken, or unbroken. The pain didn't care. "But don't worry your pretty, pretty head about it. That's just what friends do for each other."_

_The voice hummed a few more bars as the hands resumed their work, squeezing together the long fibers of his heart so that they'd stick. "It seems like it's taken years, doesn't it? But it hasn't really been that long. And we're almost done. Nearly." The fingers moved to his shoulder socket, scraping in all the small, secret, tight places around the joint, clearing debris from the synovial fluid. There was that whimper again, drawn-out and pathetic and supplicating. "Oh, relax, Sammy. Just sit back. In no time at all, I'll be done. You'll have skin and eyes and all those other ridiculous human parts you seem to need. I'll even put back the hair. Then we can catch up. Find ways to keep each other entertained. We've got all the time in the world. And I'm just so_ bored... _You wouldn't believe how much I've missed you."_

_There was a sharp slithering motion behind his ribs, and a flare of compressive agony as two hands slipped around his lungs and tightened into fists simultaneously. Sam's breath exploded in a sharp, rattling, wet whoosh. Panicked, he began panting, a whining, terrified, tortured fight for tiny sips of air. In a sick counterpoint, the voice started humming again._

_"... Tell him that his lonesome nights are over..."_

 

* * *

 

Sam finds himself walking back down the hallway again without a thought in his head. Just pacing, blank and restless. It's been three hours since Dean left. He's not sure how long it's been since he slept. He really should get some sleep. He's useless like this.

He heads back to his room; looks at the blank walls, the pile of tangled sheets on the bed. He can't face this right now. He can't lay there and pretend he's not fighting a losing battle with his own mind.

He could get out of here for a while. There's nowhere he really wants to go, though, and he shouldn't really be driving in his state, anyway. He heads over to his dresser, rummaging until he finds a pair of sweatpants. A run. That's what he needs. Take care of himself, get outside, get into that state where there's nothing but the movement of his body, the rhythm of his feet, the bellows of his breath. Where mindless is a good thing.

There are trails throughout the woods outside the bunker; some are new, but most are old, and were nearly completely overgrown when they arrived here. Sam's worked on cleaning them up. Clearing the underbrush, adding wards or refreshing the old ones that line them. The woods here are unremarkable, not at all majestic or impressive, really, but there's a quiet beauty to them that Sam enjoys. They're alive. They don't care if Sam's there. They've been the same, constantly changing in small, subtle ways, since before Sam was born. They'll be here long after he's gone and the trails are all overgrown again.

Dean doesn't like it out here; never really comes out here if he can avoid it. Once, when he was drunk and Sam was coming in from a run, he'd told him that it reminded him too much of purgatory.

Sam pushes thoughts of Dean out of his head as he stretches. He knows it's best to leave him alone right now. Let him hunt and clear the anger. A hunt will be good for him. Wait for him to call Sam first, when he can deal with it. He'll do that soon enough. He always does.

Sam knows Dean's just worried about him; that he doesn't know how to help him. He wishes he could tell Dean there was some way to help. He doesn't even know what's wrong any more. Trying to think about it just tangles up everything in his brain, makes him tired, gives him a headache.

Pretty soon Sam's got a good pace built up, taking a turn down one of the older trails that loops about 6 miles at the bottom of a ridge south of the bunker. The trees here are a little taller, a little thicker. Old growth. He's wondered before if some of the wards and spells surrounding this place protect it from anyone coming around with an eye for development. There's nothing, not even a farm, for miles in any direction.

By the end of the second mile everything aches and his breathing is uneven. This probably wasn't the best idea, as worn down as he is, but he pushes on anyway. Sleep is what he needs. Maybe this will tire him out. Maybe he'll be able to sleep.

Somehow he doubts it.

It isn't working like he'd hoped, anyway. His mind is far from quiet, and the woods are anything but soothing today. The trees seem to tower and loom, blocking out most of the sullen sunlight. There's a chill to the air that's more damp and sodden than it is bracing and refreshing. Every sound from the shadows, every rustle and twitch and snap, makes him twitch. By the time he's decided he may as well just turn around, he realizes he's more or less at the halfway point in the loop. May as well keep going forward.

Sam's just come out of a dark thicket of pines, where a blanket of ferns carpets the ground. Up ahead he can see early afternoon sunlight slanting through where the trees thin out into an almost-clearing. He puts on a burst of speed, anxious to clear out of the chill of the verdant shadows, when there's an explosion of noise from up on the right. A loud, violent clattering of something, something large and fast, moving through the underbrush towards the trail. He looks over and for a moment his mind can't make sense of what he's seeing, the bounding blur of something large and dark that almost seems to be cartwheeling towards the trail. He stumbles on an upthrust root, coming down hard on his knees. He has a moment of detached reflection ( _didn't bring a weapon, stupid)_ before the thing clears the underbrush and stops on the trail before him.

It's a deer. Completely motionless, about twenty yards up the trail. Not a huge one, but big enough; a full-grown doe. She stands still, only her ears and nostrils quivering, staring at Sam as he stares at her, still on his knees. She's alert, cautious, but he doesn't think she's afraid of him. Her eyes are large and dark and liquid, watching him, waiting to see what he will do. He finds himself matching his breathing to hers, without being completely aware of it. There's a measureless moment as they both look at each other. He doesn't think he's ever seen one so close before.

After a minute, or maybe five, she seems to decide he's not a threat, not to her, at least. Her head swings down gracefully and she sniffs at the trail, nostrils flaring. She picks her way over to the edge of the trail and quietly walks into the underbrush. Sam turns his head to watch her disappear into the trees. He stays where he is, kneeling on the trail, just breathing in and out, until he can't hear her movements anymore and she disappears into the woods.

He gets up slowly. His knees are a little sore, but it's nothing compared to what he's used to. His muscles will be stiff in a few hours, but the promise of discomfort is like an old friend by now. Without any more hesitation, he launches into motion, picking up his pace as he finishes his run back to the bunker.

...

He's toweling off his hair after a hot shower and staring down his bed again. He's really got to get some sleep, nightmares or not. Everything about him feels thin and drawn out and burnt. He sits down on the edge of the bed and looks at his phone. Still nothing from Dean, or, well, anyone. Not that there's many people that Sam hears from these days. Most of them are too dead to pick up the phone.

He sighs. It's only been six hours since Dean left. He's certainly still on the road. Still, he can't help but worry. He knows Dean can handle the case fine on his own, but what about when it's done? Will he want to come back here? Find another hunt? Go off on his own, looking for Amara? He sighs. _Fuck it._ He picks up the phone and thumbs a number in his contacts. Dean needs someone to talk to.

There phone rings seven times; no answer. "Hey, you've reached Jody Mills. If you have this number, you're probably someone I want to talk to, so leave a message. If you're looking for the Sheriff, this number's not for you. Hang up and call 911."

Sam smiles. As much as he likes Jody, he's almost glad she didn't answer. She's pretty good at picking up on things, and blunt enough to call him out on his shit. He doesn't really want to try and dodge any questions right now. "Hey, Jody," he says. "This is, um, Sam. Hope you and the girls are doing well. I, uh, I'm sorry we haven't been in touch recently, but it's been kinda busy. Well, not that busy, but, um... Anyway, I just wanted to let you know Dean is up near your neck of the woods. Wisconsin, but that's not too far, right? He'll probably be on a case for the next few days, but I was thinking it might be nice if you gave him a call and had him swing by when he was done. He could use the company, I think. I'd, uh, come by, too, but I've really got to finish what I'm working on here. Ok. Thanks, I'll talk to you soon." He's quiet for a moment. "Oh, and hey, don't tell him I asked you. You know how annoyed he gets by that kind of stuff. Thanks, Jody."

He hangs up quickly, before he says anything else dumb. Another sigh. That probably won't end well, but he had to do something.

He lays back on the bed, and closes his eyes, not even bothering to pull the sheets over him. They'll only end up in a sweat-soaked tangle around his legs, anyway. This is pointless, he thinks, as he starts to drift off. I'll never be able fall asleep....

An hour later he's flung awake in a panic. Someone is screaming; a loud, desperate, animal scream. He jumps up, reaching for the gun next to his bed. He's got it in his hand and is sliding towards the door of his room before he realizes it's quiet. It's another moment before he realizes, by the soreness of his throat, who was doing the screaming.

So much for sleep.

Sam put the gun down on his dresser, leans his head against the cool wood of the door. He can't go on like this much longer. He closes his eyes.

_Um, Castiel,_ he thinks, feeling uncertain, but also desperate. _Hey, I don't want to bother you, and I know you've probably been hearing from Dean pretty much constantly, so I'm sure you're busy. But, well... he really needs help right now. There's not much I can do for him, either, since, well, I'm kind of the problem he needs help with. Well, there's Amara, too, but I know you're working on that. But, Dean needs you. We're both kind of a mess right now. And I don't know what to do._

_What else is new, right?_ Sam smiles to himself, a little bitterly. _So, um, thanks. Amen._

Man, he's just the king of awkward messages today, isn't he? He wonders, absurdly, if there's some kind of angelic voice mail. If Castiel is too busy smiting, can he put in some kind of pin code and hear all the prayers he's missed? Ridiculous. He's got to find something to focus on before he goes completely to pieces.

Sam pulls his head away from the door and looks around. No Castiel. Not that he really expected anything. And if Castiel was really listening, anyway, he'd just go straight to Dean.

Sam sighs again and heads down the hallway. Eat something, go to the library. Pretend he's doing something useful. The library is probably the place in the bunker he feels the most comfortable. If he can't sleep, maybe he can at least rest a little. He grabs a random book off the stack he has on the table; settles into his favorite armchair. Stares at the same page as his mind turns over fragments of ideas and memories and sensations. Just as he's admitted to himself that he's getting nowhere, there's a change in the air of the room, a slight adjustment of pressure and presence that tells him something else is in the room, something inhuman. He looks up to see Castiel standing in the doorway, with a peculiar expression on his face. One of his many peculiar expressions.

"Hello, Sam." The angel's gravelly voice drops into the room as he walks over to the table across from Sam and leans against it.

Sam smiles at him. "Hey, Cas. I didn't really expect you to show up." He realizes how ungrateful that sounds. "Um, thanks for coming, though. I'm really glad to see you."

"Of course, Sam. You were in need. I am here."

Sam frowns. Castiel has never been very good and noticing what Sam needs before. "Well, I was kind of hoping you'd go and check in on Dean. He's been trying to reach you for a week, at least. Did you go there first?"

"I have not seen Dean."

"Oh." As is often the case, Sam's just not sure where to go next with his conversation with the angel. Did he have to be so damn inscrutable? "Well, uh, Dean's not here. He's in Wisconsin. Or on his way there."

"You are here, though." Castiel raises an eyebrow. "Trouble in paradise?"

Sam huffs. Dean's really rubbed off on Cas; it's still weird seeing the angel with a sense of humor, however odd it is. "You could say that." He offers him a wry, tired smile. "I think... well, I think all my crap has just finally gotten to be too much for him. Too much for both of us, I guess. I'm falling apart, _again_ , and he doesn't know what to do. And, there's that whole Darkness thing, which he's being really weird about." There's a pause while Castiel considers him, and then Sam continues quietly. "But mostly, mostly... I think it's just me. And I don't blame him. I kind of don't want to be around myself, either."

Castiel pulls himself up onto the edge of his table, his legs dangling off. "What crap is it that you speak of?"

Sam breathes deeply, slowly. He really didn't want to talk about this today, but maybe Cas has some ideas on what he can do to get past this. He's seen Sam broken from the Cage before, hell, he took his memories and shared his madness. Maybe there's no one better he can talk to. At the very least, Cas should be able to make it easier for Dean, explain that Sam's not trying to be difficult. He looks up at the angel. "That parody of the Cage. Seeing Lucifer. Being stupid enough to go back to hell. Letting Dean down again. And now, being completely useless, because I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't think. And he doesn't deserve to put up with this."

"I thought that you didn't remember the Cage." Castiel leans forward and cocks his head to the side.

"No, no, well, I don't _really_. And, um, thank you for that, Cas, for helping me back then. You know I'm grateful. I'd be dead now if it weren't for you. I still don't really remember. I mean, I'm having dreams. Nightmares. I can't remember the details or anything, but they're... pretty horrifying. And being in Rowena's cage, with Lucifer..." He shakes his head. "Even though I know it's nothing like the real Cage. I don't even know what that means, or how I know it, but it was... It wasn't the cage, anyway, you know? It was being so close to Lucifer. Letting him get his hands on me. Every time I think about it, I can't breathe."

The angel stares at him intently, blue eyes burning. "Why is that? Do you think you would have said yes if we hadn't showed up?"

"No!" The word is jerked loudly from him with force. "No," he repeats, more quietly. "I know I wouldn't have. I'm certain I wouldn't have, even if that meant getting dragged back to the actual Cage. For good, this time." Sam swallows. "That kind of scares me more, you know? That I would do that. Does that make sense?"

Castiel smiles, and a shiver runs down Sam's back. "I think that makes sense. To me, at least." He leans back on his hands, looks up at the ceiling. "So, dreams about the devil and the deep black sea. Hmmmmm. And now, you're slowly losing your mind. _Again_. Which means you're no good for fighting evil right now."

"Yeah... that's about it." Sam shrugs, smiles. He knows it looks pathetic.

Castiel taps his fingers on the edge of the table, glances at Sam. "What's this about Dean being weird? With the Darkness, specifically."

"Oh... well, I'm not really sure. He won't talk about it. Surprise. But he seems almost... obsessed with her. More than he would be normally be for something like this. There's something going on there that he won't tell me about. Maybe he'll talk to you about it, though?"

Castiel looks distracted. "Maybe." He turns his gaze fully back on Sam and it's like something searing right through him. "So, Sam. what do you expect me to do with this mess you've made, hmm?"

Sam opens his mouth, closes it. "I... I don't expect anything, Cas. I just..." He looks up. "I don't know. I guess I was just hoping you could be there for Dean, but... ever since the Cage, you've been completely out of touch, it's not like you. He _needs_ you."

"He doesn't know what he needs. Neither of you do." Castiel smirks, and it's so unlike any expression that Sam's ever seen on his face that he freezes, breath caught in his throat, eyes wide. "Oh, don't give me those puppy dog eyes. I'm immune to them, _Sammy_." He laughs as Sam starts shivering, unable to move. "Look at you! I thought you were pathetic last week, down in hell, thinking God gives a damn about _you_ , Sam Winchester! Worried about how you'd let down Big Bro! And here you are now, skulking about in your dad's basement, afraid of you own shadow. Sam, Sam, Sam." The angel smiles, and his teeth are sharp and white and vicious, so wrong in Castiel's elegant face. "I'm sorry. I think I have to take part of the blame here. This is really my fault. I've been going about this all wrong. I took something from you, and I think, without it, you're just half the man you used to be. " He slides off the table, takes a step towards Sam. "Don't worry your pretty head about it, though. I'm in a really giving mood today."

Sam finds his muscles in a burst of horror, scrambling out of the chair to find an angel blade or anything, really, anything he can use to fight the _Not Castiel_ creature striding towards him. To fight Lucifer. Lucifer, standing in his library, comfortable and easy as if he belongs here, with an amused smile on his face.

He doesn't get far.

Sam's hit with a wall of force, slammed into the bookcases behind him. His already-bruised body slides to the floor. He lies there, gasping, unable to move; terrible, invisible pressure on his chest like leagues of water pressing down on him. He hears the measured echo of footsteps approaching him. "Sam, where do you think you're going? We've got so much to catch up on. Don't be rude to an old friend." A figure stops above him. Castiel. _Not Castiel_. The devil leans down, studying Sam's face. Reaches out, flips a lock of his hair out of the way with his cold fingers. He smiles down at Sam beatifically. "It's good to be home, isn't it?"


	4. Last Night I Dreamed That I Was Swimming In a Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean looks for connections in the deaths he's investigating, and finds ties to family. The hashbrowns are fantastic.

_Sam awoke in a dark room. It seemed familiar, but he couldn't make out much in the sickly, pale moonlight light that leaked in through the windows above him. The darkness was not still, either, and, blinking, he felt a crawling up his spine as he looked at the ceiling. There was something, something boiling through it and over it. It was like television static, or a maggots wriggling out of rotting meat, but colorless, or maybe every color. He could see through it, but it distracted his vision, he couldn't focus on anything. The more he looked at it, the more he saw patterns in the tiny sparks of non-color; patterns that moved and whirled and unfolded in ways that made him feel sick and dizzy, like he'd been spinning for hours and just stopped. He closed his eyes, pressed his hands down at his sides. He was lying on his back on a lumpy couch. He could feel the worn texture of the fabric under his fingers, too clearly; it was like every thread was a bristling wire as he brushed his fingers across the cushion underneath him. The feeling was disconcerting, almost sickening; he pulled his hand away quickly._

_He sat up slowly, eyes still closed. He felt..._ whole _, but somehow gritty. Like each part of his body was rubbing against the other parts. Like he was all spurs and rough edges that needed to be worn down. But it didn't really hurt. It hadn't exactly crossed the threshold into pain, and he was grateful for that after... (no no don't think about that it's not real). He took a deep, unsteady breath._

_"So, this is home, hmmm?"_

_Sam's eyes flashed open, he was halfway up out of the couch, before he recognized the voice. Before he realized what it meant. Through the fragmented dark, he could see a figure shadowed in Bobby's favorite armchair. The white flash of teeth, the glint of weak moonlight off wet eyes. He scrambled away, back pressed up against the wall._

_"It's kind of got that... Early American Squalor... thing going on, doesn't it? I mean, I know rustic is all the rage, but it's in the middle of an_ actual junkyard _." The figure in the chair shifted, and the roiling patterns shifted with it. "But It was either this or that absurd car of your brother's. And I'm not a teenage girl, Sam. We're gonna need a little more room than that if you want to show me a good time."_

_Sam backed into the corner, half-crouched down, breathing heavily. The wall didn't feel right behind him. It was both too sharp and too soft at the same time. He could feel every bump and crevice of the wall under his fingertips, but it also felt like he could push his hand right through it. "Lucifer..." he breathed out._

_"Good job, Sam. You didn't even need your other two guesses. I bet you just aced exams, didn't you?" There was a snap, and a lamp came on across the room. Sam blinked in the viscous yellow light. The spinning fractal patterns didn't fade in the dim glow. Everything looked unreal, and hyper-real. Like he could see all the particles that made up everything in the room, and they were all decaying constantly. The effect was nauseating._

_Bobby's house. At least, a twisted simulacrum of it. Lucifer lolled in the chair, ankle resting on his knee. He gestured around him lazily. "I hope you like it. I made it just for you. The cage, without filters, well, you've seen that already. Shredded your fragile, limited mind like so much tissue paper. Which, I can't say I didn't enjoy. We can save that for another time, though; it's no place to have a conversation." Lucifer smiled. "And we have important things to talk about."_

_"I don't have anything to say to you." Sam huffed out. It was almost reflexive at this point. There was no fire behind his resistance._

_"Oh, I doubt that very much, Sammy. Even if it's just_ 'Ahhhhhh' _and_ 'No!' _and_ 'Stop, please stop!' _" The devil's smile grew wider. "I think you'll have so much more to say, though. It's important to me, to know what's going on in that massive skull of yours. Mostly, though, at least for now, I just want you to listen."_

 _Lucifer stood and wandered over the bookshelves along the wall near Sam. He pulled out a burnished leather-bound book, flipping through the pages. Every rustle echoed in Sam's ears, his eyes followed every move. "You see, we have so much time now, Sam. All the time, really. Forever. But I would hate to see it wasted in idleness. A young man's education is very important. I understand that, even if other people in your life were not as... enlightened." He tossed the book to the floor, slid out another with a deep blue cover. "And I... well, I have so_ much _to teach you."_

_Lucifer sidled over to the corner where Sam is hunched, crouched down before him. The look on his face was no longer mocking or playful. It burned with promise. "Tell me, Sam. What do you know about suffering?"_

_Lucifer reached over, gently almost, and turned the book in his hands so that Sam could see the pages. A woodcut, beautifully rendered, but horrifying. Depicting tortures inflicted upon martyrs. The brazen bull. The wheel. Something his eyes couldn't even make sense of. Sam couldn't look away, could barely breathe._

_"Hundreds of thousands of years, Sam." And the devil's voice was low and soft. "Ever since my father pulled you apes out of the muck, you've been suffering. Disease, starvation. Aging and accidents. Just eons of wails and laments. The things his world has done to you... well, they're worse than anything done to me and my brothers. But, still, the worst things you've experienced, you've done to yourselves. To each other."_

_Lucifer took the book back, looked through it consideringly. "I know my brothers can be terrible at times. We really can be bastards, with the smiting and the righteous retribution. But never did we posses your sheer creativity, the boundless cruelty you show for inflicting pain and torment." He looked up at Sam, smiled a small, wry smile. "I know I haven't been humanity's biggest fan, but, I have to say, it's pretty impressive."_

_He closed the book and tossed it over his shoulder. He reached and took Sam's chin in his hand. Sam was shaking. Couldn't move. Couldn't look away from Lucifer's burning eyes. "So, I think it would be... illuminating... for you to experience it. All of it. Not just the tortures, though there's plenty to learn there, but everything. The diseases. How it feels to rot away on the inside and die from smallpox, syphilis, the spanish flu. To go mad as your brain bakes in its own pan. The battle wounds. Ever had your skull caved in by a flail? The venomous animals. The poisonous ones, too. Being rent and eaten alive by something bigger and sharper than you. Starving slowly. Man versus nature. Man versus man. Man versus woman..." He tilted Sam's face up, stroked his thumb roughly along his jawline, gave him an indulgent smile. "I don't want to deny you any experience, Sammy. A grand tour of the history of human misery. The highlights and lowlights of my Father's finest creation. We'll take our time. We'll cover it all. We won't rush any of it. I know what a scholar you are. I know you won't let me down."_

_Lucifer stood up and stretched ostentatiously. "So, enough chit-chat! I bet you're as excited to get started as I am, Sam. I'm thinking... a little something from the Spanish Inquisition to begin with. I know, I know, it's almost cliche. So expected. But there's a reason for that. It's classic. It's always good to start off with the obvious and then move into the more rarefied later anyway, right?"_

_He reached down and held his hand out invitingly. Sam shrank back, trying to pull himself further into the unreal corner of the wall. Lucifer raised an eyebrow. "Well, c'mon, Sam. There's a fifteenth century dungeon waiting for us. Very baroque; you'll love it." Sam focused in on that outstretched hand, Bobby's house crawling and decaying in the corners of his vision. "Don't make me wait, Samuel. You don't want me to lose my patience, do you? I mean, it really can't get much worse, but it certainly isn't going to get any better." His voice was final. "Ever."_

 

* * *

 

Dean doesn't need to worry too much about stealth. It's nearing 4 AM, and the town of Coon Valley is completely dead. Every bar and business within his view is dark and empty. The parking lot is dark and empty. The road is, well... there's no one to see him break into the dead guy's room.

Not that it's hard. Simple locks. But it takes a little longer than it should. It's colder than Dean expected. He'd forgotten how much the temperature drops at night this far north. The sky is a perfect sea of blackness, bright and sharp shards of stars scattered throughout. A biting wind sets the pines behind the hotel to complaining softly. Dean's fingers tremble just slightly from the cold, and he fumbles his lock picking tools a few times before they catch.

He closes the door behind him. Inside the room it's dark; dark and very quiet. Silence lies like dust over the room. They've turned the AC and heat off in here since the room's not in use. Dean makes sure the faded sage green curtains are pulled across the window before he turns his flashlight on and sweeps it across the space.

It looks like they really haven't done much here. The bed has been stripped of sheets and its mattress. There's a hole in the wall near the bathroom revealing a shining section of new pipe, crumbles of drywall littering the floor beneath it. But, unlike the clean-but-worn room Dean is staying in, there's stuff on nearly every surface. The walls lack the ducks-on-a-lake prints like Dean's room has, and instead there are photographs taped and pinned up everywhere. The dressers and and nightstands are cluttered with objects. There's clothes hanging in and piled on the floor of the tiny closet. The smell that fills the room is faint but stale and cloying; almost sweet.

Dean walks over to the wall above the dresser. The photographs span across at least four decades. Some are faded and curled on the edges, the colors yellowing with time. Others have the bright, saturated colors of a recent drug-store print. Family photos, candid photos. Mostly asian; maybe Vietnamese? Out back of an old stone farmhouse around a firepit, fishing from the banks of a small winding river, clustered in someone's wallpapered kitchen for a family meal. Dean pulls one that looks to be from the late 70s off the wall. He recognizes the main street of Coon Valley, even less developed than it is today. "Sweet mustache," he murmurs, placing it down on the dresser gently.

His eyes are drawn to a small structure on the left end of the dresser and he moves over to examine it. It's wooden, three tiers like steps. Dean leans over to get a better look at what lies on it There's a water-stained ceramic bowl, now dry. A brass dish with a thin coating of ash or powder in the center. Dean runs his finger through it; smells the faintly sweet scent that matches the room. Incense. There are a few dusty grains of rice behind the incense dish. Dean notices threads tied to the corners of the tiers, lying broken at different lengths down the front of the dresser. He turns and looks around the room, shining his flashlight on the lamps, the doorframes, the bedframe. The beam of his light crosses the ceiling and he sees it, hanging from the light fixture in the middle of the room. Four broken threads, hanging down.

Looks like old Isaiah had an altar.

It's not quite like one he's seen before. It's not a witches altar, that's for sure. Definitely nothing demonic about it. It looks kind of familiar, but Dean can't quite place it. Sam would know.

He sighs.

He pulls his EMF meter out, passes through the room. Most of it's pretty quiet, but he gets some pings from from the light fixture where the threads hang, and from the altar. They get a little louder as he follows the broken threads to the floor, but this is not fresh activity. He's about to straighten up when he sees the edge of something sticking out from under the dresser. He pulls it out and looks at it under the flashlight. Its a small piece of coarse paper, maybe handmade. A little smaller than a dollar. Characters painted on in red and gold. He doesn't recognize the language.

He snaps a few pictures of the altar, the hanging threads, and the paper before he puts it in his pocket. He looks over the photos on the walls once more, taking a couple of the more recent ones that feature an old guy that seems to be in more of the pictures than anyone else. It's pretty clear to him that this is probably related to the deaths in some way. Dead guy's room was entered a few months ago. Threads are broken that lead to an empty altar. Few weeks later, people start dying in their sleep, horrifically. Maybe a curse?

Hopefully it will leave everyone else alone long enough so can get some breakfast. He hasn't eaten since Des Moines.

....

After a hot shower, Dean finds himself sitting in a family diner down the street at 7 AM. It's too early to be up and out after a full day of driving, but the hashbrowns here are almost worth it. It's hard to find them this mixture of perfectly crispy on the outside and tender inside. Even though he couldn't get back to sleep, he feels better than he has in days. He's got good, simple food, good coffee, a good case. He's got his tablet on the chipped formica table in front of him. His fingertips snag on the jagged crack across the screen as he scrolls down a page on different types of altars. He's narrowed it down to some kind of household altar. Shamanistic, probably.

He'd texted the pictures to Sam as soon as he got back to his room. Even before he'd showered. _this look familiar to u?_ Hopefully Sam would see them as what they were. A kind of peace offering, an apology. An, admittedly pretty shitty, backhand kind of apology, but he'd expect that from Dean. Either way, maybe it would take his mind off of... things... for a while. He still hasn't heard back from him, and, while part of him rankles, he hopes that maybe it means Sam's finally getting some sleep.

Dean smacks his forehead suddenly just as the waitress is approaching. "Stupid!" She backs up a bit, blinking, and then smiles at him.

"It's ok, honey. I've got plenty more here." She swishes the coffee carafe in her hand. She has long, elegant fingers, with strong green veins on the backs of her hands, like tiny branching rivers. "You just have to ask."

Dean smiles back at her. "Thanks, um, Lee. I'd love some. Sorry, I'd just, uh, remembered something I forgot."

"That's usually how it works." She grins, and her grey eyes crinkle at the edges. "If we're lucky."

He takes a sip of his coffee as she moves away. "Lucky, yeah..." he murmurs. "Depends on what it is you remember." His mouth twists bitterly, and he pushes everything out of his mind again. No time for that crap now.

He clicks on his tablet and picks up the thread of thought he'd had before she'd arrived. Best way to figure out what kind of altar it was is to figure out what kind of guy Isaiah was. He's working backward right now. He finds the local obituaries, starts searching. He knows he's still tired, distracted. He's not usually this dense.

 _Isaiah Lau_. 76 years old. Lots of family. _Lots_. The 'survived by' list is two paragraphs long, and Dean feels a strange twinge of something like jealousy before he remembers the guy had been living in a cheap motel room, drunk almost every day. His wife has been deceased for twenty-eight years. Member of the La Crosse Area Hmong Community Agency for thirty years. Came to America in 1976.

Soon Dean is comparing pictures of a Ua Dab house altar to what he had found on Isaiah's dresser. Old Isaiah seems to have been a family shaman of sorts, tending to his ancestors and their gods. The paper he had found was joss paper, or ghost money, an offering burnt for the deceased, to keep them happy.

Obviously, they were not so happy now.

What he can't quite figure out is why it took them so long to get to this point. If Isaiah actually died two years ago, the altar wouldn't have been tended for that long. Why wait until he was found to start killing? The broken threads probably had something to do with it. And why were they so angry, angry enough to kill? He planned on going out to interview the families of the deceased this afternoon. Before then, he should see if any of them are related to Isaiah. He suspects it's likely all of them.

First though, he'll stop by the local police station and take a look at the case files. See if there's anything that stands out about the manner of death. He drops some cash on the table for Lee, who gives him a friendly wave as he heads out the door. He steps out on the sidewalk under the clear sky of a perfectly crisp, perfectly breezy, early autumn morning and heads back to the hotel, with a small smile on his face.

He can feel it. Today is going to be a good day.


	5. How Much Longer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Lucifer have a little talk about finding the perfect gift.

_He always surfaced when Lucifer was putting him back together, and that was the worst part. Coming to in a stage of incompleteness, never fully_ Sam _yet. Which meant his memories, his armor, whatever numbness he'd accumulated, was all gone. So each time, it was like the first time. No eons of suffering and agony to compare it to. No despair to cut the edge off of hope and fear. Just raw, unfiltered pain and panic as he felt the cold, graceful fingers rummaging around in his body. And it was intimate, this remaking,  in ways that even the destruction wasn't. This brutal care and time spent conjuring up Sam from whatever scraps are left. Lucifer added his usual aplomb to the process; "I'm getting to be expert level at making Sam Winchester. Every one like a collector's edition. Do you mind if I put that on my resume? It's a specialized skill, but they say you shouldn't ignore your strengths."_

 _Eventually, the mounting stress and pain of his remaking would drag him under, though, He'd be gone to the darkness until he woke up again in the almost-close-to-real simulations of home. It wasn't always Bobby's he woke up in. Sometimes it was a motel room; one of the thousands of cheap motels they lived in during their childhood and hunting days. Sometimes it was his and Jess's apartment at Stanford. And, once, it was actually the backseat of the Impala, with his head cradled on the devil's lap, as Nick Cave's Loverman played on the radio ("I guess I am a bit of a teenage girl, after all, Sam.")._  

 _Sometimes, when Sam woke up, Lucifer didn't start in with his lessons right away. Sometimes, they sat, and talked. Lucifer taught him Enochian as they went, as all other languages were inferior, and he really wanted to_ communicate _with Sam. Usually, it was Lucifer that talked, and Sam that listened. The true histories of the universe. The perfect days early in creation, just God and the angelic host, before Leviathans and humanity and all the other abortive attempts at sapient beings came around. The glorious battles. Stories of his brothers. The fall. The early days of hell. Even the Cage, what it had been like when he'd been alone ("Can you imagine, Sam?" And he'd stroked his fingers through Sam's hair, slowly, gently, "Stuck in this place with no one to have fun with, the way we have fun?"). But the devil didn't lie. He wanted to hear what was gong on in Sam's head, too. Mostly they talked about what Sam had experienced in the Cage, how his lessons were proceeding ("And be descriptive, Sammy. I know you have a way with words. I want to feel it, to smell it, I want to_ taste _it."). The Blood Eagle: how it felt to have a Viking warrior (Lucifer, it was always Lucifer) cut his ribcage from his spine, pull his still-breathing lungs out and spread them across his shoulders, and salt them as he died, suffocating, unable to scream ("I think the salt added a nice touch of irony, Sam, don't you think?"). The Bubonic Plague: the smell of death and pestilence, his body seeping and swollen and sore, dragged from his home by a masked Plague Doctor (Lucifer's blue eyes gleaming from behind the mask) before he was even completely dead, and piled under corpses in a cart to be disposed of like so much trash._

_But he also wanted Sam's own memories, made him tell of his life before the Cage, before the Apocalypse. He dredged through the most degradingly intimate and humiliating and painful times with relish, of course, but also delighted in the times when Sam had felt hopeful, when he'd felt that he had touched on something that was part of the innate beauty of the world, felt part of something sacred, when he felt that he'd truly helped someone or done some good, when he'd felt loved or cherished. And those were worse, so much worse, since when he was done, and Lucifer had dissected each moment of joy in Sam's life with surgical precision, he'd find that all of his hope, his faith, his happiness, had been worse than naive, worse than misplaced. They'd been self-indulgent, narcissistic, a lie. Because, after all of that, after everything, look at how much he'd destroyed, look how many he'd hurt and killed. And look where he'd ended up, for all of the rest of eternity._

_But still, he had talked, because he'd found that this was the only respite he'd get from the suffering, and he was weak enough to want to hold on to those moments without pain as long as he could. Even though, later, when the boils under his arms were bursting and his lungs were filling with fluid and his blood was seeping out from dozens of wounds, he always looked back and regretted it. It seemed like it would be easier for him if he could just forgo anything that recalled his former life, that approached normality; like conversation with the devil, free from constant agony. If he could set a new baseline, one where always hurting was just_ how things are _, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. But when the time came, he could never bring himself to hold his silence, could never bring himself to refuse to listen, and when Lucifer pulled him close and wrapped a cold arm around him and asked him if he wanted to talk, he'd always said_ yes _._

 _Please,_ yes.

* * *

 

There's labored, panicked breathing, high-pitched and frantic; the sound of prey caught in a trap. The cold floor presses into Sam's back. His eyes are pressed shut so hard it hurts. He grips his right palm with the nails of his left hand, digging into the old scar. _Notrealnotrealnotrealnoreal....._

"Oh no, Sam. That won't work." The voice sounds sorrowful, sympathetic, soft. "This is real. I'm no hallucination."

 A hand presses gently into his shoulder, and he flinches away violently, thudding into the wall behind him. He's almost too afraid to be ashamed of the whining gasp that escapes from him.

 "C'mon, Sammy. Get up. Don't be this way. I just want to talk." The hand grips his bicep, pulls him into a sitting position, leans him against the wall. Sam can feel cold breath on his cheek, smell dust and ozone and dried blood. "Don't you miss our old talks?"

"No." Sam whispers, cracking his eyes open. He expects to see Bobby's house, or a motel room, being eaten up by decaying patterns. But instead, there's just the library in the bunker. Solid, Real. And Cas' eyes, filled with a vicious amusement that is anathema to the angel's nature. He tries to pull away, but that same invisible, suffocating weight has him pressed in place again. "No..."

"Oh, I don't think that's true at all, Who do you have up here that will listen to you the way I listened to you? That understands you the way I do?" _Not Castiel_ runs his hands over Sam's shoulders, over the front of his shirt, as if he's brushing off dust, smoothing out wrinkles. He smiles gently, knowingly. "That sad little prayer of yours earlier confirms that. You can't lie to me, Sam."

Sam looks away, swallows, tries to calm his breathing. "Castiel..." He looks back, locks his eyes with those unearthly blue ones. "Cas, I know you're in there. Whatever he told you, whatever he promised, it's a lie, You need to _fight him._ You can push him out-"

"Oh no, don't tell him that!" Lucifer wears a look of mock terror, raises his hands in surrender. "However will I keep control now that Sam Winchester's Earnestness is on the case?"

"Let Castiel go." Sam growls.

"Well, OK. I mean, if you put it _that_ way." Lucifer's laugh is loud and deep. "Oh, Sam, has anyone ever told you how cute you are? I mean, annoying as hell, and, boy, if anyone knows, it's me. But cute. I mean, I'm not sure if you _actually_ thought you'd get anywhere with that, but you're like a puppy with a chew toy." He shakes his head, chuckling. "I am actually here because I want to give you something, though."

Sam swallows, draws a deep breath. Remembers what it feels like to have the devil driving your body, wrapped cold and glacial and impossibly huge and heavy around your soul. Cas can hear him, though, he knows. "The only thing I want from you is to let Cas go."

"Oh, are you offering me a... place to stay in return?" Lucifer trails a cold finger across Sam's jaw, draws it down the side of his neck. He raises one of Castiel's elegant eyebrows, smirks.  "Ready to say _yes_ now? Take the place of your poor, lost, little blue-eyed angel here? Another _sacrifice_?"

Sam's mouth opens, but he can't utter a word, just sucks in a thready breath.

"Oh, don't strain yourself, Sammy. The offer's not even on the table. I'm not interested in your body anymore; too high maintenance. I just don't have time to work out that much." Lucifer stands, smiles, runs his fingers through Castiel's dark hair. "This one will do me just fine. And despite your noble urges, the donor was, and is, perfectly willing. There's no one for you to save here, Sam. No, there's only one thing I have for you, and then I'll be on my way, and you can get back to your-" He casts a dubious glance around the room, "Important work here."

Sam closes his eyes. Could it be true? Cas would have had to have said _yes_ , after all. What was he thinking? "I don't want anything..."

Lucifer cocks his head, bright and sharp and dangerous. "You know, I think that's actually more true than you mean it to be, isn't it? Tsk, tsk. Young, strapping man like yourself, a real hero, a lover and a fighter... well traveled, well educated..." He smiles like a dagger, "It's a shame to see you come to this. You should be kicking back, relaxing, enjoying the fruits of your labors. Whiskey, women... other Winchesters? No? Well, whatever works for you. Either way, you shouldn't be moping around on the library floor, waiting for... _nothing_." He wanders over to the shelves, pulls a book out, glances at the cover, tosses it to the floor. "Anyhow, I didn't ask if you wanted it, did I? You don't even know you need it yet; that's the beauty of a well-chosen gift. I just love picking out that perfect thing for someone, don't you? Do I get her a diamond or a quince? Should he get forgiveness or eternal torment? Paradise on earth or the apocalypse? It's worth it just to see the looks on their faces when they unwrap the ribbons."

"God, you still just love to hear yourself talk, don't you?" It slips out before Sam can even think about it, and he shuts his mouth with a snap, grits his teeth, before he can make it worse. He's terrified, but he can't take this taunting much longer. He knows what follows next won't be pleasant. He knows what follows next will be pain. It's at that moment he realizes that they've both slipped into Enochian without him noticing.

"God has nothing to with this; you know that. I am happy to see you've kept up your language arts, there, Sam. I'd hate to think you'd forgotten all of our lessons, hmmmm?" Lucifer gives him a sidelong glance. "But you have, haven't you? You've... forgotten. Or, at least, my little angel steed here has taken away much of that burden for you. He's filtered it out; made it muted and distant. You hardly know it's there, it's only like a story you heard once, that happened to someone else. And that's just not right. You worked so hard for that education, Sam. How many years do you think we put into it? Hundreds, at least? Maybe thousands? And I know you had a rough time of it when you... matriculated. It's hard to reconcile the real world with that kind of immersive education. But that's hardly a reason to give it all up."

Lucifer wanders back to Sam, crouches down in front of him. He takes Sam's face gently between his hands, tilts it up towards him. "I want to give you an opportunity, Sam, one not many humans get. A chance, just a chance, but I have faith in you. A chance for... enlightenment." A beatific smile shines from Not Castiel's face. His thumbs stroke the tears that have slowly started spilling from Sam's eyes, "I know, I know, you're so grateful. It's ok. And I have to say, I'm normally not one for regifting. It's so tacky, right? You know they didn't pick out that duck-shaped gravy boat just for you. But, see, I've got two of these now that I'm in little Cas's head. I've got a matching set here, of memories. memories of a very... special time that we shared. And it just seems like such a shame to let one go to waste, when, really, it's just what you need."

"Please, don't..." Sam still can't move. Can't look away from those guileless blue eyes. He can't do this again. Can't relive that time in the cage. Can't relive the months that followed, slowly feeling his mind crumble away as eons of remembered pain and torment humiliation erode it. Can't watch Dean lose his brother all over again, drowning himself in a bottle.

"Sorry, Sam, they're yours. You have so little choice in this matter. And, really, you're the one that gave them away in the first place. I'm the one that should be hurt. I'm just returning them to their rightful owner." He brushes Sam's hair back from his face, serious and thoughtful. "But, remember, I said this was an opportunity. I don't want you to just go all cuckoo's nest on me and die in a month; that's no fun for anyone."

"I don't... I can't..." Sam closes his eyes, whispers, pleading. " _Please..."_

"Shhhh... Calm down, Sammy. I've got it all taken care of. You're not going to die. Not right away, anyway. You might go crazy, but, if you do, you've got your natural... well, highly unnatural at this point, I suppose... lifetime of suffering with your madness to look forward to. Now, that might be fun... for me, at least." One cold hand slips to the back of Sam's neck, cradling his head. "But, you know, maybe you'll find a way to deal with it. You might even find you get something out of it. That it will make you more than you are now, more than you've been. I mean, don't go thinking you're special, but, you know, there's aghoric monks, and cenobytes, and certain psychedelic connoisseurs that figure it out. and they're just guys. And you didn't do that bad last time. You lasted a while before you completely cracked. I'll bet you do even better this time with all that experience under your belt. So, you've got a fighting chance, Sam."

Sam keeps his eyes closed. There's a sound of finality in Lucifer's voice. There's no appeal to be made, nothing that will save him. "If... if I do this, will you let Cas go?"

"Sam, Sam, Sam, have you been listening to a word that I've said? No. No, I'll do nothing of the sort." He flicks Sam's ear gently. "You know a gift with strings on it is not really a gift, anyway. No, I'm having fun with this little angel, for now, and pretty soon you'll be too busy to worry about me. This is all you get. It's all you really need. trust me."

Lucifer places Castiel's cold, cold fingers on either side of Sam's temples. "Open your eyes, Sam." Sam complies, tears still running down his cheeks. "There we go. Ready? Good luck."

Lucifer leans in and places a glacial kiss on the center of Sam's forehead. There's a moment of perfect, terrible clarity; as he faces what comes next with an almost wry regret, a deep sorrow, and a crystalline fear. The last thought he has is _I'm sorry, Dean. Then,_ for the second time, a thousand years of pain, a dozen lifetimes of breaking and being torn and turned inside out, pours into his head all at once, and everything that is _Sam_ crumbles and is swept away in the burning flood.


	6. Spirits Follow Everywhere I Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Dean can only ignore things for so long.

"Sam, I'm bored."

_The fractal edges of the Cage were not the true borders. It was the center that was open; open and empty. Everything folded in, leading to the darkbright singularity at the heart of the Cage. All that twisted space looping around and around itself, infinitely, infinitely, never-ending. And, there, at the center, there was a... hole. A lack, a void._

_A nothing. An immeasurable and terrible and vastunending nothingness._

_"We've been doing the same things for so very long. The playacting. The set pieces. The pain, the fear, the weeping. All that meat and blood and mucus; I think you're getting used to it." The devil tucked a lock of hair behind Sam's ear, his other arm looped around Sam's chest, as he held him up from behind while they peered into the abyss in front of them. The frozen, flat notlight of the void picked out the pale hairs on the backs of his arms. "At the very least, you're no longer getting what you used to get out of it."_

_A toroid, Sam said, when asked to name the shape. Or torus. Lucifer chuckled and ruffled his hair, praising his fancy Stanford education. Not a donut, then, like Dean would say. He laughed harder at the small hitch in Sam's chest at hearing his brother's name in the mouth of the devil. That would never get old for him, it seemed; even after all the things he had told Sam about Dean, all the things he did to Sam while wearing Dean's face and hands and voice. The "little walking tour" of Dean's final decade in hell, where Sam got to play along as each victim of his subtle and terrible skills. The way none of it touched Sam's devotion to his brother, even while it all tore him into tinier and tinier shreds._

_The way the very idea of Dean was, still, something sacred to Sam._

_"I think it's time we move on to some deeper lessons, hmmmm? I think you're ready for them. Move past history and sociology 101; tackle some philosophy, some physics." Lucifer turned to cast a measuring eye on his brother, who stood at their side, winding Sam's nerves precisely and methodically around a slender, silver spool. Michael pulled each nerve out of Sam slowly, delicately splicing the ends together, from the old knife wound low on his spine. He had reopened it with his own hands, the bright and terrible facets of his form shining through Adam's impassive face. "My brother likes the harder truths, anyway. Thinks it 'wastes the suffering' less. Right, Michael?"_

_Sam didn't know how many years he'd been in the Cage, how many decades or centuries or millennia; didn't think it mattered anymore. He'd died in torment uncountable times. He knew his deaths would be ceaseless, but never final. This wasn't punishment, nor atonement. There was no release waiting for Sam, no enlightenment. It wasn't even really vengeance. It was just something to do. Sam was just something to_ do things to _, a device to measure one moment from the next. A metronome of agony against a blank eternity of isolation. When he'd understood that, he'd even found a small measure of peace. A little sympathy, even. Thought that maybe he could work with that; being useful. Thought that, while maybe these things that were done to him would never be less than atrocity, maybe they would be ok. That is, until they'd propped him up here, face-to-face with the abyss. Kissed his temples, stroked his face, told him they'd be right there, waiting to pull back whatever was left when it was done with him._

_Nothing would be ok again._

_"Everything is wasted on this one." Michael's voice was the shiver of high voltage current and the sudden splinter of shattered glass, the sharp bite of tinfoil on teeth and the greenblack of a sky before storm. There was a deadly, hidden smile behind the flatline of Adam's mouth, viper lurking in calm grass. His blunt fingers twisted Sam's nerves in tight, slow spirals:_ brachial plexus, chorda tympani, geniculate ganglion _. "But that does not mean he shouldn't suffer."_

 _Sam let out a hushed whimper when Lucifer asked him if he was ready. He felt the devil's cold, soft smile nuzzle behind the angle where Sam's jaw met his neck, as the sickening light in front of him fractured and blurred. Lucifer liked it best when Sam cried quietly; found it sweet, endearing. Michael would have him scream until he shook apart, and it would still never be enough. But when Sam was spread out before him, pliant, shivering, bloodied, face swollen with tears, pulling in soft, shuddering breaths that were not quite sobs, Lucifer would cradle Sam's face in his hands and smile tenderly at him, with something that looked like pride, affection. Tell him how_ good _he was doing._

_Sam would close his eyes, take a shaking breath, nod gratitude._

_"How does it taste?" Asked Lucifer, as he pushed Sam a step towards the center, cold hands gripping his trembling shoulders. Michael poked his tongue out, touching the tip of it to the gently pointed terminus of Sam's spooled line of nerves. The tiniest tightening of Adam's facial muscles signaled displeasure. "Not enough fear. I don't think he even understands at all." Lucifer smiled, squeezed Sam's shoulders. "Give it a minute, brother. I'm sure Sam won't let us down. He just hasn't completely shaken that whole hope thing yet, I think. But I'm pretty certain he understands enough. Right, Sam?"_

_And then there was a shove, just a small one, gentle even, between the planes of his shoulders, and Sam stumbled out, and down, and in... Everything folded. The Cage, the two angels standing at its rim, the whole universe, time, Sam himself, all folding in on itself like impossible, nauseating origami. He kept folding in and in and in until he's compressed into only two dimensions, one, and then none. He saw the brightness, the darkness behind it, and then even that disappeared, and there's nothing. There was just.... nothing. Nothing changed, nothing ceased, nothing began. He was a loop that folds back in on itself, forever. He's damned, he's static, he'll never change. It was worse, so much worse, than pain. It was eternity._

_Somewhere, distantly, he thought he heard angels laughing._

 

* * *

 

Dean flips his phone's screen on one more time; ghost-flicker of scanlines in the right corner where he'd dropped it a few months ago - not diving from a poltergeist, not stumbling from a bar, feet rye-heavy and fingers hops-numb, but digging in his pocket for spare change at a WaWa counter, sixteen cents short of a Dr. Pepper and two boxes of gauze. Sam's smirk had been brief; sleepy-lidded and mild. As he'd picked it up from where it skidded, Dean lined up, let fall flippant responses and rude gestures for taunts that never arrived. When he'd looked back, dented phone in hand, Sam had been turned towards the windows, face blank and eyes unfocused down the perpendicular lines of infinity.

No new texts or calls.

Dean bites back a sigh, slips his phone back in his pocket. _Still early, still sleeping_ , he tells himself. That's good. He looks around at the squat county buildings on the edge of downtown, the Impala gleaming in the midmorning autumn sun. La Crosse is one of those places that doesn't quite know what it wants to be; much too big to be a town, far too small to be a city. Surrounded by green bluffs and cut through by the young end of the Mississippi, the kind of natural prettiness you find on tourism brochures that locals' eyes seem to glide right through. A downtown ruled jointly by nostalgia and progress; all the new construction in the same vintage brick voice as the old buildings, steamboat ghosts and boutique shoppers on the dusty sidewalks together. But it hadn't escaped Dean's notice just how many of those storefronts were shrines to Bacchus. Every other window a bar or pub or club; _my kind of tow_ n, Dean thought, but, not really, not anymore. It all spoke of isolation and cold, a coming tide of freezing drowned in alcohol fumes, loneliness clinking like ice in the bottom of a whiskey-golden tumbler. Too many bars for so few people, everyone could claim a stool all at once and each still have spaces between them. Even Dean could see it, the prophecy of winter-cracked roads edged with tire-churned piles of black-veined snow. The layer of salt that would limn all the streets and floors like hastily sketched runes. The bluffs bare and grey and thorny. The broad, ice-smoothed river an indifferent white artery slicing through the heart of everything. Nothing moving. Nothing growing. Everything dying by increments; the pale, stuttering sun never quite reaching noon. The kind of numbness that stung and nauseated and burned on the way down would be a blessing.

Maybe this is his kind of town after all.

The trip to the ME doesn't yield much. Only the most recent of the bodies is there for him to view, so he's going off reports and pictures for the others; interviewing the coroner. No wounds on any of the bodies. Traces of stimulants in two of the vics, but neither of them in amounts that would be near fatal. The coroner suspects one of the newer synthetic drugs that are being hacked together every day, one of the nbomes or a 2ct or something like that, that local labs don't have the ability to pick up yet. But he admits he hadn't seen the normal signs of an overdose. Three hadn't had any history of drug use, either, though that doesn't necessarily mean anything. They are tentatively calling it natural causes. Died in their sleep. None of them had been older than 43. Two of them had been teens.

When he's been let in to examine the body, he's subsumed by a _feeling_. A buzzing, filmy-headed, panic; a sharp-edged, frantic emptiness in his stomach that makes him swallow against the sudden dryness of his mouth. _Six days with no sleep_ pops into his head. What the fuck. It's a familiar voice that's not his own, like a twisted kind of contact high, passing as quickly as it comes on. This kind of... _psychic shit_... is Sam's domain. Despite his visions and telekinesis and fucking brain exorcisms and all that other terrifying talent having disappeared years ago, Sam's still got some kind of sensitivity to things that other people don't see, something that goes far beyond the gut instinct that Dean himself knowns well, has cultivated like a muscle over years of hunting. He's seen it before, on Sam's face, when Sam thinks Dean's not looking (and when isn't Dean looking, really, except when he really needs to be). Flickering and ghosting over his features, in his eyes, in fast waves like the spinning light on a beacon tower, glimpses of emotions no one's ever made a name for. The _feelings_ you get when part of you lives in, has always lived in, the next world. Dean had felt a little of that with the Mark, shifting and coiling deep under the anger and hunger and violence.

Dean shudders. A spark of fear and concern flares in him for his brother, one that's never gone, always banked, ready to consume him without warning.

"Did you catch anything I missed?" The coroner, Dave, is a friendly guy, short and thin, messy dark hair that makes him think of Cas, a pleasant face with a persistent upward curl to his mouth and just a hint of a lazy eye.

Dean smiles instinctively, sure his face is pale and tight, transparent. "Nope. Nothing I can see here that looks out of place." _But did you_ feel _that, Dave? You can't see it but you had to feel it, right?_

"Ok, man, well, let me know if there's anything else you need."

Dean walks through the glass doors into the sunbaked asphalt lot like he's walking onto the surface of an alien planet. There's a pack of college kids crowding their way down the sidewalk across the street, one of them weaving slowly on a wooden longboard. They look so young. Dean was never that young, Sam was never that young. Even when they were that age, there's were already so many years in the set of their eyes, in the shape of their shoulders.

Den sighs, jingles his keys, thinks about heading back to Coon Valley, interviewing the families. Wishes Sam were here to help him out. He used to really throw his back into sincerity; like empathy was a duty that Sam owed to the living. Sometimes the dead, too. But less often to family. And never to himself.

Dean wonders where the hell his optimistic mood from this morning escaped to. Bottom of the river, maybe. Probably keeping company with a few drunken, waterlogged ghosts. He slams the door of the Impala. _They're welcome to it_ , he thinks.

They'll probably make better use of it than he did.


	7. While Laughing at the Moon

_"Sam, do you know where your brother is now?"_

_"I- no... Dean- I told him... I told him to..."_

_"Would you like me to show you what he's up to?"_

_"You.. I- he won't- Yes... yes, please."_

_"Hmmm. So, do you think he's living the sweet life, in a sweet little house, with sweet little Lisa? I know that's what you like to picture; it keeps you going when the chips are really down. Dean, retired and safe. Content. With a_ real _family now. Free from heaven and hell, hunting, heroics... hermanos. Finally released from the burden of always having to protect his pathetic, broken little brother. From having to protect the rest of the world_ from _his brother. A settled, stable Dean Winchester, there's a thought. I wonder if you'd even recognize him now. It's been so long down here, hasn't it, Sam?  Feels like at least a millennia. Could be ten years up there. A decade is more than enough time for him to move on, don't you think? By now, it'll be hard for him to remember what you really looked like. The exact color your eyes were. What you sounded like when you laughed. I'm sure he thinks about you from time to time, though. Once or twice a year, on anniversaries. I wonder, Sam, who do you think he'll be sharing a heaven with now, once he dies?"_

_"..."_

_"Oh, yes, you're right, clever boy; it won't be you. Ten points for Ravenclaw! Now, is that what you want to see? Dean, without you? Happy?"_

_"Yes. Yes,_ please _."_

_"Hmmm. No hesitation. That's really what you think he deserves, isn't it? But, well..."_

_"...What? Please- please just... I-"_

_"Well, Sam, it's just that I don't know why you'd think he'd do what you told him to. Honoring your last request, you think that happens? I mean, do you think it would be so easy for him to just forgive you for how much you fucked up his life? How you just left him all alone when things got really hard? Bobby dead, by your hand. Castiel dead, by your hand. His mom, his dad... everyone he loved. Even_ you _, dead, by your own hand... you really think Dean just let it all go and faded into suburbia? Barbeques on Sundays and softball leagues and maybe a little missionary position when Lisa's had an extra glass of wine? And how could he trust himself with Ben, when the last kid he raised... well, just look how you turned out. No, Sam, sadly, old dogs.. new tricks... and Dean's a soldier. He only knows one trick. And now, he's got to do it on his own, because how could he ever trust anyone again, after what you put him through? And you and I both know how it goes for hunters that work alone. It's not pretty, is it? Hard, used up, missing limbs, blind in an eye or two, blown out joints, a few STDs, at least... Bitter and paranoid. Angry. Like your old man, before he bit it. I'm sorry to say it; it's hard to see a loved one go down that path. But I know you miss him. We could take a look at that. For you, Sam."_

_"Pl-please... stop..."_

_"Sam, Sammy, I don't want you to miss out on this opportunity. It's been so long; don't you want to see Dean? He's your big brother, I know how much you love him. You may have had that whole song and dance about responsibility and saving the world, but, you and I, we shared a body and a mind, for a time. I know you did this all for him. You wanted him to be proud of you. To forgive you. The truth is, he may not be that far away, after all. You know how he liked to cope with grief and anger... not that he ever coped very well, did he? He liked his booze, that boy. You weren't around anymore, though, to stop him from driving after that last shot of whiskey. To keep him from taking on that skinwalker after the ninth or tenth beer... it wouldn't have taken long. It may have only been a year or two topside, but Dean, he's always had a bit of a death wish, and not much left to keep him grounded anymore. And, well, once you've been to hell... He hasn't really done much to wipe the slate clean, has he? He's a killer, a drunk, a womanizer. Quite the temper, too. I bet his old rack barely had time to cool off. I could see if whoever's in charge of that circle now will give us a peek, if you want..."_

_"No no no nonono...."_

_"Sam, shhhh. Hush. I'm sorry, Sam. This is all so unfair. You know, the likelihood is he never kept that one big promise to you in the first place. You two, you're so obsessed with each other. It just isn't healthy. That hasn't gone away. You know he was never going to give up on trying to find a way to rescue you, to get you out. Find some crack in the cage; spring his baby brother. You've been counting on it for years. I know. I can see it in your face, still. You can't hide it from me. But, Dean, yes, he's clever, but he's just not quite fast enough. Not quite smart enough. You see, this cage, it's, well, like a roach motel. They can check in, but they can never check out. And Dean, he wouldn't let anything keep him from getting to you, would he? And once he was here, he'd be mine. And everything,_ everything _I've done to you, I'd have done the exact same to him. It's only fair, right? You're two halves of the same whole and all that, I wouldn't want to throw that off balance. Sam, Sam, are you with me still? Shhhhhhh. Shhhh. Look, this is all just rumors, just speculation, at this point, right? Honestly, I don't know what the fuck is up with Dean Winchester. But if you're quiet, if you're good, if you stop making those pathetic sounds for just a while, we'll take a nice, long,_ close _look at all the possibilities. I'm sure you'll be able to figure out which one is real, OK, Sam? We can look as many times as you need. Just let me know, afterwards, what you think is real."_

 

* * *

 

It isn't that cold out, not really. It's late, the middle of the fucking night, closing in on October in the middle of fucking nowhere in the middle of fucking Kansas, so of course, it's _cool,_ like 55, maybe. But not cold, really.

So there's really no reason this guy's fingertips, his lips, should be _blue_. Like, really, purple, almost, though a few of them are so white they're grey. With his hollowed-out cheeks, the dark shadows under his eyes, if it weren't for the tan of the rest of his skin, he'd think he'd picked up a corpse; Rachel says he's watching too much Walking Dead on his tablet during stops, seein' zombies everywhere now, thanks, Netflix. That's why he's got that nice big kukri knife in the pocket of his door. Well, not for _zombies_ , but you never know if who you pick up is what you thought they were. Junkies hoping he's got speed or meth or even adderall on hand to stay awake, handsy creeps, serial killers. Not that he's ever run into any of those, I mean, tweakers, sure, but they'd always asked, looking to buy, no one's ever held him up. And he's been offered a blow job or two, and hand jobs, but it's always been business, just a transaction, and if he'd turned any of them down, they never got pushy. And 39 year old truckers with beards and a bit of a beer belly and a tattoo of Optimus Prime on their forearm are not the target of any serial killers he knows of. Rachel worries, though, she doesn't like him picking up hitchers, thinks they'll find him one morning cut up in bloody little pieces all over his cab. But Joel gets bored, gets lonely, he's always been a people person; likes having someone to talk to. Likes hearin' people's stories, even the weird ones. Maybe especially the weird ones. Likes making those connections, however brief. He's probably in the wrong business, but it's too late to change that now, he's been doing this for 17 years now; wouldn't know how to _not_ live alone on the road at this point.

So when he'd seen the lanky figure loping along at the side of the road, between the shoulder and the dark line of trees, pale hand held up in the pale headlights, he hadn't thought much about pulling over and stopping. Clothes were clean and mended. Hair was long, but looked trimmed, groomed. God knows there wasn't gonna be a lot of the kind of traffic that would pick up a lone man at this time of night. Wouldn't be right to leave him here; Joel hitched a few times when he was younger, knew how discouraging it could be when you got stuck on a long, dark stretch, watching taillights go by for hours. When the guy crossed in front of the truck, Joel had seen that he wasn't wearing shoes, and thought _huh_ , but not much else. No bag or backpack or anything, either. Still, he's seen stranger things.

But Joel's thinking now, and has been since this dude climbed in the passenger door, with his long, bare feet and his long, blue fingers, not saying anything but the single, quiet word, "North," that there's something just _not right_ with this guy. I mean, first of all, he's huge. He hadn't really been able to tell from the road, but Joel's 6 feet and this guy's got a good 4 or 5 inches on him, probably. And he's looking like he's missed a few good meals recently, but there's definitely muscle under that denim and plaid, and those shoulders are _broad_. Not that being a giant motherfucker is a crime or anything, and Joel's not easily intimidated, but it does mean if this guy's in the psycho killer camp, Joel's not putting a lot of stock in his zombie-killing knife to save the day. He's no fighter; he sits all day and hits the gym like twice a year and knows exactly how easily someone bigger than him could overpower him. And there's a tiny shiver running under the guy's skin, too, just the slightest tremor, like somethings crawling fast and silent over his muscles, and it, like, _radiates_ , it travels over his body like ripples in a pond. Joel sees it start near his eye and in flash it's scuttling over his cheek and then down his neck under his collar and a few moments later he sees the blue fingers tremble, then he listens for the soft _taptaptap_ of his toes on the floor mat, and then it goes back the way it came: fingers, neck, cheeks, eyes. It's kind of really freaky. Maybe he's got some kind of nerve disorder, like Rachel's aunt, whose fingers and toes get all numb and blue and painful if it drops below 60 or she's stressed or the store is out of her favorite brand of gin. That would probably suck. He kinda feels bad that he keeps watching out of the corner of his eye.

"So, um, you got some kind of neurological issue?" The guy's been staring out the passenger window for a good 10 minutes, completely still except for the shivering, like there's anything to see out there but black trees and black sky and black fields and black, black, black. Fucking Kansas. He turns to look at Joel and when he got in Joel had pegged him for his early 30s but now that he really sees his eyes he thinks to himself _'oh damn this guy is **old'**_ and then wonders why he thought that, because it's obvious from his face he's young. Kinda pretty, too, like, if he were fed up and not a twitchy bastard, he'd be the lead on one of those police detective shows Rachel loves to watch. Joel gestures awkwardly. "Uh, the fingers. Like, Raynaud's or something? My wife's aunt..."

The guy blinks at him, silent, unreadable. Sorta _creepy_. He doesn't seem violent. Well, Joel wouldn't go that far. He looks like could very well deal out some violence. But he somehow feels like this guy isn't dangerous. At least not to him. But that doesn't mean there's not something really, really wrong with him. Rachel always said he was too laid back, too nice, has shitty instincts.

"He was, um, a real bastard, you know. Politics and religion aside, the histories got that right."

"What?" It startles out of Joel. What the hell is this guy talking about?

"Raynald. The Templar. The crusader of God. The Prince of Antioch." The dude's greenish eyes are intense, glazed and heated and red-rimmed, but his voice is soft, conversational. "He betrayed everyone, everyone. Just... consumed. I think I know how he feels. But his was all greed, and ambition. I don't know about that. I don't think... I think mine was something else." He smiles absently. "He was pretty good at pain, too. And humiliation. He would have liked my brother, maybe, at least when my brother was in hell. And when he was a demon, too. And sometimes just when..." He trails off, eyes distant and sad, and is quiet for a moment and _just what the fuck is going on._ "What he did to Aimery wasn't the worst thing, I know that, definitely, not even close to the worst things, but it was still terrible."

"Your brother?" He doesn't know what else to say. This guy is definitely not right in the head. Schizophrenic, maybe? PTSD?

"What about my brother?" His hazel eyes go wide, his voice is strained.

"Uh, the Aimery dude? Um, what your brother did to him..."

"No, that was Raynald. Dean doesn't know Aimery. Unless he was on Dean's rack, but I think he'd have passed through that part of the pit way too long ago." He's quiet again and looking back out at the black window and Joel breathes a silent sigh of relief that maybe this bizarre conversation is over. Maybe he can just wait a few minutes, slip on the radio or a podcast, and steer clear of the crazy till he can drop this guy off somewhere. Soon. "Aimery suffered, but he didn't die. Not then, at least. But it still hurt, he still suffered, and he didn't let him die. I think I know how he feels, too."

"Oh." He sounds so sad, Joel kinda feels bad for him, even if he is batshit. "Uh, I'm sorry?"

The guy turns his burning gaze back on Joel and smiles kindly. "It's alright. It's not your fault. It's just what I deserve. I started the apocalypse, you know. I let Lucifer inside me, too, years ago. And then I let him out of the Cage last week. That's so much worse than anything Raynald did. Or, well, anyone, really." The shiver makes his eye twitch, his jaw tremble. "He told me, you know. Lucifer. Showed me. Not just history, but my sins, too. I know how all the people I've killed died. How it felt, I felt everything they felt, when they died. How I made them suffer. Even Dean, that first time, when he was ripped apart. So I know I can't make up for it, you know? I know what I am, what I deserve." He sounds so reasonable, so matter of fact. He furrows his forehead, as if remembering something. "Have you ever been covered in honey and left in the desert sun to be eaten by insects?"

 _Holy shit holy shit fucking code red_ this guy's is officially _psycho_. Rachel was fucking right. He should never have made fun of her for watching CSI. He hopes she doesn't have to look at any crime scene pictures of his blood smeared in pentagrams all over the cab. His shaking fingers creep down toward the knife hidden in the door by his seat. "Um... no..." his voice is strangled and tight. Shit, this guy is gonna know he's on to him, he's gonna get himself _killed_... "That sounds... kinda kinky? I mean, not in a good way. Shit! I'm sorry, dude, look, I don't have anything in the cab much, but I have a bottle of uppers and you could probably get a few bucks for my tablet and my phone and you can have all that but just please, I've got a wife, you know, I'll drop you off wherever you want to go..."

He's full-on babbling now, but the _giant psycho hitcher_ is shrinking back into the door of the cab, shivering worse than before, teeth chattering a little, and his eyes are wide and his face is pale and damned if he doesn't look _horrified_. Like, as scared or more scared than Joel. And oddly contrite. "Oh God, no! No no no no no. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." The guy is holding his empty hands, palms forward, up in front of him in the international fucking sign for _surrender_ or _take it easy_ or _I don't have a bigger fucking knife than yours in my back pocket_ or whatever. "Oh, god, I'm scaring you, aren't I? I didn't mean to, I'm so sorry. I know I'm fucked up, I just thought I could... I had to go, you know? I couldn't stay there, he knew where I was and he could come back and I had to go... Look, you can just stop here and drop me off, I'll walk, I'm sorry. Sorry sorry sorry... I just hoped..." And then his face crumples up and he starts to cry and he pulls his bare, dirty feet up onto the seat and his shoulders down and backs into the corner and wraps his massive fucking blue and white hands over his head like he needs to protect himself from _Joel_  and how does a _fucking giant fucking crazy man_  look so fucking small? It's so pathetic Joel is left speechless and somehow feeling like an asshole. Like a fucking bully. Making overgrown psycho serial killers cry like little children across the highways of America..

"Look, man..." He keeps his hand on the handle of the kukri but doesn't pull it into view. "Shhhhh... look, it's ok, alright? I'm not upset. A little freaked out, yeah, sure, but, you know, I mean, I'm not mad at you. Look, if you promise not to kill me I promise I won't kick you out on the side of the road in the middle of the night, ok?." He tries to pass it off as a joke, yeah, an awful one, but _still_ , and it just makes the guy shake more as he keeps crying. Fuck. "Hey, guy, dude, look. I'm sorry. Please calm down. Look, you're freezing or something, I'm not gonna leave you here. What's your name? Do you have any medication you should be taking or anything? Is there anyone that can help you, anyone you can go to? A hospital or something?"

"No!" The guy looks up in utter terror. "Please, please, not a hospital!"

"Ok, ok, no hospitals! No problem." The guy's breath is hitching a little, and there's still tear tracks running down his red and snotty face and, man, Joel's never making jokes about someone being crazy again because this _really_ sucks. But at least he's not sobbing any more. "Look, hey... what's your name, man?"

"Sam. I'm Sam." His voice is small and ragged.

"Ok, Sam, I'm Joel, ok? Good to... well, anyway, look, where can I take you? Is there someone I can call?"

"Dean. I have to find Dean, please."

"Dean, that's your brother?" Joel's a little conflicted because of Dean's being a _demon_ and maybe dead because _Sam ripped him apart_  and also the _hell and torture_  stuff from before, but hey, at least he's got a goal now, right? It's good to have a plan.

"Yes, my brother. I need Dean. _Please_." And Same gives him a look that's so sad, so pleading, so lost, eyes big and brows crinkled, that Joel's heart breaks a little for this fucked up, fully grown man, and he hopes that Dean can actually do something to help him.

"Ok, good, Sam, that's good. Do you know where Dean is? Can I call him for you?"

Sam shakes his head, sniffling. "I... can't remember. It's all broken now, everything that's now is all mixed up. He won't answer; no one will. _He's_ the only one that came." Sam gasps in a breath. "I can't... Dean's north. I need to go north."

Shit. Well, he can only go so far before he needs to drop off his current load and head west with a new one. But maybe he can convince Sam to call someone or go somewhere or do _something_  before then. He must be crazy himself. He should really take this guy up on his offer to drop him off right the fuck there, right the fuck now. "Look, I can go as far as Missouri, ok? I can drop you off at a truck stop or a bus station or whatever there if you want to try to get another ride. But if you can think of anyone that might help you find your... Dean before then, you let me know and I'll call them for you, ok?"

Sam nods gravely, carefully placing his bare feet on the floor one at a time. "Thanks... Joel. I'm, I'm sorry about before. I'll be quiet, ok? I can be quiet. I won't scare you again, ok? I wouldn't.... I won't.... Thank you."

Joel feels like a dick again, for reasons he can't really pinpoint, seeing as _he's_ really the one that should be all traumatized by this whole experience. "Shit, Sam. It's ok. You don't need to be quiet. We can talk. I just... didn't know how to take it, right? You don't need to be ashamed if you've got some shit going on in your head that you can't get a handle on. It happens to the best of us. My uncle was always kind of screwed up after he got back from Nam. Episodes, or whatever, but he was a good dude. Hey, look, you seem to know a lot about history, maybe we-"

Sam shakes his head, wraps his arms around himself, gives Joel a small, watery smile. "No, really, don't... It's fine. I'm fine. I'm sorry. You can put the radio on. I can be quiet." He turns and leans his forehead against the window, staring out into the darkness. "It's really better that way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lost half the original chapter due to a technical (user) error, so it took a little longer than I'd hoped to get this up, sorry! I'm not sure how happy I am with this chapter, but that could be because I had to write it twice. Feedback is always appreciated!


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